


Gangs of Middle Earth

by Scribomaniac



Series: For Karrot [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, Gang AU, M/M, Modern AU, Romance, all that good stuff, gang fights, star crossed love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:25:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5771275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribomaniac/pseuds/Scribomaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins was a completely normal man, thank you very much.  He lived a modest yet comfortable life and was completely content with it.  So what if he, every so often, dreamt of some grand adventure?  Of going off into the wilderness and facing off against dangerous foes?  Flights of fancy was all that was.  Delusions of grandeur, as his father used to say.  No, Bilbo Baggins was completely comfortable with his way of life.  That is, he was until the gang known as the Sons of Durin popped in to his house one Sunday afternoon.  After that, his comfortable lifestyle didn't seem all too appealing anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Unexpected Guests

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Gangs of Middle Earth](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/169882) by Nuggles. 



Bilbo Baggins was a completely normal man, thank you very much.  He lived in a modest house left to him by his parents—who were also completely normal in case anyone wondered—owned his own garden nursery, _Every Bloomin’ Thing_ , and enjoyed to spend his free time in his kitchen or reading in his winged back chair.  He lived a modest yet comfortable life and was completely content with it.  So what if he, every so often, dreamt of some grand adventure?  Of going off into the wilderness and facing off against dangerous foes?  Flights of fancy was all that was.  Delusions of grandeur, as his father used to say.  No, Bilbo Baggins was completely comfortable with his way of life.

                So on one fine morning, a Sunday in fact, meaning Bilbo had nowhere to be because the nursery was closed on Sundays—as everything should be—he found himself lounging on his porch swing smoking his grandfather’s old pipe.  Bilbo loved this pipe.  Old Toby, his grandfather used to call it reverently.  After his passing, Bilbo had kept it safely tucked away in a velvet and satin box buried deep within his closet.  His father hadn’t been a smoking man and would have thrown Old Toby away at first glance, and Bilbo knew he had to save it.  He only smoked it once a week—so as not to create a nasty habit—on Sundays as a guilty pleasure. 

                A soft mewling noise caught Bilbo’s attention.  Opening his eyes, he looked up to find a very tall, very old, man with a full, scraggly beard standing before him holding his cat.  The man wore an overly large, floppy hat that looked quite ragged and seemed to have been patched up in several places with other fabrics.  He also held a crude walking stick in his other hand, making Bilbo even more curious as to how he hadn’t heard his approach.  “Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed with surprise.  He hadn’t even heard the of the second porch step, “Ah, good morning.”

                The man looked confused, “What do you mean?”  He asked, tilting his head to the side, “do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

                “Well,” that had stumped Bilbo.  He furrowed his brows and thought for a moment, “All three, I suppose?”

                The man grumbled under his breath but nodded all the same.  He adjusted the cat in his arms slightly before stroking her on the head.  “Um,” Bilbo began, “have you found Myrtle, then?”

                “I beg your pardon?”  The man asked, his overgrown eyebrows shooting up into his hair line.

                “Myrtle?”  Bilbo repeated, “My cat?  Did she get into your flowerbed or something?  I do apologize, she tends to roam off when I’m not looking.”

                “What?”  The man asked again, then put Myrtle down. “No, no, I found this one just at the end of your drive way.”

                “Oh,” Bilbo said slowly, “Ah, then might I ask why you’re here?”

                “You are Bilbo Baggins, are you not?”

                “I am.”

                The man nodded and grumbled under his breath once again.  “Belladonna Took’s son?”

                “Again, that would be me.”

                Another nod, “Of course.  I am Gandalf,” he said.  There was a brightness to his eyes, Bilbo had the vaguest of suspicions that he was being sized up by this stranger.

                “Can I—can I help you?”

                “I am looking for someone,” he began and shifted his weight to lean more heavily on his walking stick, “to share in an adventure.” He tilted his head, his expression half knowing and half something Bilbo couldn’t quite place.

                Pulling his pipe away from his teeth, Bilbo blinked several times, “Wha—an, an adventure?”  He made a negative noise with the back of his throat, “No, no, I don’t think you’ll be finding anyone West of Newbury that would have much interest in adventures.”  He couldn’t have spoken more plainly, and yet he felt compelled to keep speaking, to really illuminate to this stranger why adventures were such a bad thing. 

                Standing up, he shuffled his feet some and went to check his mailbox even though he knew it’d be empty—it was a Sunday, after all, “Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things,” he closed the mailbox, “make you late for dinner.”  He laughed to himself, a dry and almost uncomfortable laugh.  That was a phrase his father used to repeat.  Anything that made one late for dinner was seen as a crime in his father’s eyes.  Bilbo expected the man to leave any moment now.  His eyes kept flashing up from his feet to the man’s face.

The man stared down at Bilbo for a strangely long amount of time before nodding slowly.  Then with another nod, he turned right around, floated down the steps—the stair didn’t squeak—and walked away from Bilbo and his house.

                “How peculiar,” Bilbo commented to himself.  Looking down at Myrtle as she rubbed her body against his calves, he said “Well, at least that’s all over now.  Though, I do wonder what that was all about.  Huh, Myrtle?”  Myrtle gave the only proper response a cat could: she meowed.

                Later that evening, hours after Bilbo had last given a thought to the strange man or his strange questions, he was curled up in his antique winged back chair which was situated in front of his fire place.  He had his mother’s home made quilt thrown over his legs and was in the middle of re-reading one of his favorite books.  It was a quarter to six and the sun outside was just beginning to set and Bilbo could smell his homemade bread baking in the oven.  It was nearly finished now and would go splendidly with his leftover rainbow roasted pepper soup. 

                Suddenly, Myrtle scampered past his chair, running deep into the house in search of a proper hiding space.  Cocking an eyebrow, Bilbo wondered what had frightened his cat so when he heard the harsh, pounding knock on his front door.  Wondering who that could possibly be, Bilbo bookmarked and put away his book to its proper place on the shelf and neatly folded his quilt on his chair before making his way to the front door.  Couldn’t have a guest finding his home looking untidy now could he?

                Opening his door, still imagining who could be on the other side, Bilbo’s brain came to an immediate stop when he set eyes on the brute that stood on the other side.  The man turned around at the sound of the door opening.  He was balding, though it looked like all the hair from his head had migrated to his jaw, had a large nose, and arms that bulged wider than Bilbo’s head.  He nodded at Bilbo and said, “Dwalin,” as a greeting.

                Not completely sure what to do, Bilbo jerked a nod back and said, “B—bilbo Baggins.”  The man said nothing, but gave him a cold stare as he walked past the threshold of Bilbo’s home, “I’m sorry, do we, ah, do we know each other?”  Surely they must.  Why else would a stranger casually walk into his home?

                But the man just gave him a look like he was some dolt, “No,” he said, then continued further into the house.  “Which way is supper, then?”  His voice echoed through the halls.

                Bilbo was about to shut the door and follow the stranger when something white caught his eye.  Another man—this one much friendlier looking, with white puffy hair and matching beard—stood in his door way.  Assuming he was here for the first man—perhaps Dwalin was mentally ill?—he stepped aside and allowed the man entrance.  Giving Bilbo a kind smile, he nodded and said, “Balin.”

                It became obvious enough to Bilbo within the next three seconds that this Balin was not, in fact, there to collect Dwalin.  Bilbo could hear the cheerful sound of a reunion of sorts and went to investigate.  He found them in his kitchen closet, riffling away at his dried goods and other non-perishables, “Now, um, pardon me, but, you see—the thing is—I don’t know either of you, so—I’m just going to have to come right out and say it,” he raised his hands and motioned them forward, “I’m sorry.”

                That got their attention.  The two men—brothers?  Bilbo wondered, based on their names—stopped their hushed chatting to look at him.  Then, in a completely innocent manner, Balin replied with, “Apology accepted,” and continued riffling through Bilbo’s things.

                Bilbo, taken aback, didn’t quite know what to say, but then heard the ring of his doorbell.  With his jaw dropped open, Bilbo slowly walked back towards his door to see who _else_ was calling at him at this hour.  This time two male youths—maybe early twenties—stood before him.  Giving out a small moan of trepidation, Bilbo looked at the floor for some strength.

                “Fili,” the blond one greeted with a small grin on his lips.  He was slightly shorter than the dark haired one next to him, but looked much more put together and had a calmness in his eyes that the other one most certainly did not. 

                “And Kili,” the dark haired one said immediately after the first.  He said it so severely, like it was a death sentence and not a name, but then—almost in unison—the two bowed their heads and when they popped back up a large, monkey resembling smile, was on Kili’s face.  “You must be Mr. Boggins!”

                “No!  You can’t come in!”  Bilbo said shortly, not looking either boy in the eyes.  “You’ve come to the wrong house,” he tried to lie and shut the door.

                “What?  Kili said, stopping the closing of the door quite easily, “Has it been cancelled?”

                “No one told us,” Fili added suspiciously.

                Bilbo was completely bewildered, “Cancel—no, nothing’s been _cancelled_.”

                “Well that’s a relief,” Kili said with a smile.  Fili nodded and the two muscled their way into Bilbo’s home.  Unlike the rest before them, Fili and Kili didn’t immediately venture further into the house.  Instead they tore off their coats, threw them to the ground, and Fili handed Bilbo two armful of sheathed fighting knives.

                “Careful with these,” Fili told him, a wicked gleam in his eyes, “I just had them sharpened.” 

                Bilbo grunted under the weight, his eyes feeling larger than his tea saucers as he looked down at the weapons in his arms.  “It’s nice,” Kili commented lightly, “this place.  Did you decorate it all yourself?”

                Never one to ignore a question, Bilbo tried to answer as coherently as he could, “Ah—no, it’s been in the family for years, so—” then he noticed what Kili was using to scrap off his muddied boots and courtesies left him for a moment, “—that’s my mother’s sewing kit!  Can you please not do that?”  He finished lamely, his courtesies having returned quite quickly.

                “Fili, Kili,” Dwalin called, coming out from the kitchens to grab at Kili’s arm, “come one, give us a hand.  We’ve got to make room for the others.”

                “ _Others?_ ”  Bilbo cried, his voice slightly cracking as he followed Dwalin and Kili.  He still had the knives in his arms as he asked, “How many more are there?”  It was almost as if Bilbo summoned the devil himself, because as soon as the words left his lips, his doorbell rang again.  “Oh, no,” he groaned.  “There’s nobody home!” He shouted at the closed door, feeling fed up.  He tossed the knives onto the floor—screw organization—and waddled over to it.  “Go away,” he said, “and bother somebody else!”

                Bilbo swore, if this was some idea of a joke, it was in very poor taste.  Pulling open the door, he had to quickly jump back or else get crushed by an avalanche of bodies.  Several men began to pick themselves up, slowly, grumbling and swearing profanely as they did so.  Looking up, Bilbo saw someone he never thought he’d see again.  It was the old man.  The same old man with the same hat and walking stick from earlier in the day.  He stared back at Bilbo so innocently, not saying a word, and all Bilbo could think to say was, “Gandalf.” 


	2. Thorin's Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin arrives at the Baggins's residence.

If, just a few hours ago, someone had walked up to Bilbo and informed him he’d be playing host to a honest to goodness gang, he would have given them the most peculiar look he could muster and politely informed them that they needed to have their head checked out.  Now, though, Bilbo wondered if _he_ was the one in need of a psychiatric examination since not only had he allowed the gang members to stay in his home, but he was _cooking_ for them as well.  Grumbling under his breath as he simultaneously turned down the stove and added another clove of garlic into his stew, Bilbo whole heartedly blamed his mother for this behavior.  Belladonna Took-Baggins—a woman known for never denying a hungry soul.  Random strangers could come knocking on the Baggins’ front door and ask for anything, readymade or not, so long as Belladonna was home. 

Hearing another crash come from his dining room, Bilbo flinched and hurried back to see what those hooligans had broken this time.  There was joyous laughter coming from all the men as they sat, quite comfortable, around his grandmother’s dining table.  Gandalf stood at the head, a cigar wedged between his teeth, looking very pleased with himself.  All the dishes that had been scattered about the table just moments ago were now piled high—precariously high—in front of Gandalf.  How he got them all together, and so cleared away of their grimy leftovers, Bilbo had no idea, but he didn’t trust it one bit.  No sir, he thought, it had to be some sort of trick.  He’d definitely heard a crash.  No doubt all his real dishes were broken beneath the table and these were just some cheap imitations—an illusion—of his real ones.  Brow furrowing, Bilbo opened his mouth to—once again—chastise the men about their rowdiness and general loudness when he heard two solid knocks come from his front door. 

Gandalf whispered an ominous, “He’s here,” before moving faster than Bilbo had yet seen towards the front door to answer it himself.  The room full of men had turned quiet as they all turned to watch Gandalf disappear down the hallway.  Wrinkling his nose and pursing his lips, Bilbo decided to follow Gandalf and see for himself who was at the door.  It was, after all, _his_ house.  _He’d_ be the one to decide if the newcomer was granted entry.  He heard a phlegmy cough behind him and his head twitched to the left.  Right, well, he had to at least try and act like he had some say in the matter.

He walked into his foyer just as Gandalf opened the door.  Another man stood on Bilbo’s porch.  He was looking out off to the side, but turned his head—a faintly amused smirk on his lips—as the door squeaked open.  Bilbo’s face became hot and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping.  This man—Bilbo had never seen anything like him.  He was nothing like the regular, vanilla looking suburban men he’d seen all his life, and he didn’t seem to fit the mold of the other men inside his house.  No, he looked something completely different, something regal, or majestic.  He had a beard, like the rest had, but his was neat and trimmed.  Bilbo could easily see how much effort the man put into maintaining it.  His hair was mostly all black, but the silvery parts of his hair—the parts that people usually tried to hide away—were braided along the side of his head and tied up along with the rest of his locks into a messy bun.  His eyes were blue and they reminded Bilbo of a lake in winter, with a fresh layer of ice forming along the top.  Bilbo thought he was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.  He thought he was the most dangerous person, too.  Even beneath his oversized jacket, below the heavy fur lining, Bilbo could see the man’s muscles straining against the material of the sleeves.  He looked poised, even elegant to a degree, but radiated power.  Bilbo’s instincts told him that if prodded, the man’s tightly coiled muscles would snap faster and harder than that of a newly sprung mouse trap.    

“Gandalf,” he greeted, his voice bringing Bilbo out of his half-dreaming state.  “I thought you said this place would be easy to find.  I lost my way,” he took off his coat and—Bilbo now realized they had an audience, as the other men had followed him—threw it into the arms of one of the younger men.  Ori, Bilbo’s mind vaguely supplied a name.  “Twice.”  He said this as though he was proud of it somehow.  “I could barely see that mark on the door.”

“Mark?”  Bilbo asked, his head flashing between the man and his door.  “There’s no mark on _that_ door,” he assured both the man and himself.  “I had it painted a week ago!”  Gandalf closed the door before Bilbo could get a proper look, so he directed his disgruntled expression towards him. 

“Never mind that now,” Gandalf said with a placating smile.  He gestured between Bilbo and the man, “Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce you to the leader of the Sons of Durin: Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bilbo made a small, almost inaudible noise.  It was halfway between a groan and a whine and if asked, he would deny ever making such a sound.  Thorin’s eyebrows rose as he surveyed Bilbo, “So,” he said slowly before taking a step forward, standing directly in front of Bilbo now.  He crossed his arms and looked down at him with a calculating look in his eyes, “This is our man.”  He enunciated every word, making Bilbo feel all of two feet tall. Thorin began circling around Bilbo like a shark circling a freshly bleeding scuba diver, “Tell me Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?”

“Pardon me?”  Bilbo asked softly, not sure he heard correctly.  Of all the strange things that have happened tonight, this might be the strangest.  Thorin Oakenshield—a notorious gang leader—was standing in his foyer, looking all too handsome to be real, and asking Bilbo if he ever fought.  Was this _really_ happening? 

“Knives or bullets, what’s your weapon of choice?”  Thorin clarified, coming around from behind Bilbo on his left hand side.  He still had an unimpressed, but analytical, gleam in his eye. 

Bilbo hated it.  He wanted to wipe that look from Thorin’s face.  He suspected Thorin must’ve known Bilbo was no fighter—the doilies around his house could have told anyone that—so, like the smart alec his father always accused him of being, he replied with a peppy shuffle of his feet, “Well I have some skill at Yahtzee, if you must know,” Bilbo made his voice as gravelly and as hard as possible, trying to sound as intimidating as one could when speaking of a dice game, “but I fail to see,” he paused to look into Thorin’s blue—oh so very blue—eyes and had to glance down at the floor.  His bravado quickly faded and he lamely ended his sentence with, “how that’s relevant.”

“Thought as much,” Thorin said smugly, a sly grin on his face as he looked over his shoulder to share conspiratory snickers with the rest of the gang.  “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar,” he told his men, causing them to break of in raucous laughter. Some even had to bend over, holding their sides, due to laughing so hard.  Giving Bilbo one last cheeky smile, Thorin turned and led the way back down the hallway, deeper into Bilbo’s house.

Cheeks puffing out in indignation—what was so _wrong_ with being a grocer?—Bilbo glared at the back of Thorin’s head as he disappeared down the hallway.  Cursing himself under his breath, Bilbo felt he should have known better.  It was, after all, always the handsome ones that were the worst.  Pretty on the outside but rotten on the in, his mother used to say.  Curling his hands into fists at his sides, Bilbo hid his feelings of disappointment with self-righteous fury.  How dare he—this _stranger_ , this _Thorin_ —come into Bilbo’s home and insult him in such a manner?  Straightening his shoulders and furrowing his brow, Bilbo followed after the group.  They’d be gone from his home soon enough—as soon as Gandalf got whatever it was he needed—and Bilbo would never have to deal with any of them ever again.  Cracking his neck to the side, Bilbo let out a snort.  At least, he supposed, he’ll have learned something from this experience: never again would he be distracted by a pretty face.               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos/whatever are always appreciated!


	3. The Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is presented with some facts and a contract.

The unwanted party within Bilbo’s home increased in its liveliness tenfold, it seemed, once Thorin had arrived.  Bilbo had given up trying to control the Sons of Durin and resigned himself to glowering at the boisterous men from a corner of the room.  Gandalf’s newest cigar—the man practically chain smoked the things—created a terrible smoke.  The thick gray coils drifted up to the ceiling and then wafted outwards to the rest of the room.  The smell that came along with it was terrible.  It was foul and foreign and Bilbo knew without a measure of a doubt that it would take months of work before the smell dissipated completely from his home.  Tears blurred his vision, not because he was particularly sad, but because his eyes were attempting to protect themselves from the stinging smoke.  Knowing he probably looked like a tearful, red faced mess, Bilbo glared even harder at the hoard of men sitting across the room from him.

“So, Thorin-lad,” Balin said once a raucous row of laughter died off, “What’s the news from Ered Luin?  Did they all come?”  Ered Luin, Bilbo repeated the words silently over his tongue.  That sounded familiar . . . if he wasn’t mistaken that was the name of a town up north, practically straddling the state line.  It used to be one of the economic centers for the country—Motor City, that’s what people would call it, but then the stock market—or, Bilbo thought, maybe not.  That didn’t sound right.  _Something_ crashed, and all the factories that once supplied the country with fine motor vehicles closed down and, with it, so did the entire town.  Now a days all the town was good for was strip mining.  A horrible, ecological nightmare if Bilbo ever knew one. 

“Yeah,” Thorin said, not looking up from his drink—a large cup of Bilbo’s _finest_ brandy—his face showed no expression, negative or otherwise.  “All the heads of the families were there.  All seven of them,” now Thorin twisted his neck with a grimace.  No one seemed to mind his behavior, though, because all the men began mumbling to one another excitedly. 

“And what did they say?”  Dwalin asked slowly, bringing the group’s focus back onto Thorin.  “Is Dain with us?”  Whoever this Dain was, Bilbo mused, he must be important, because the group had yet to be so quiet, watching their leader with baited breath. 

Thorin sighed, trying to steel himself for whatever was about to come, glanced quickly around the room before returning his sight to the drink before him and said, “They will not come.”  Although the mumbles around the table turned solemn, no one seemed too shocked or outraged that these people from Ered Luin—whoever they were—weren’t coming.  “They say,” Thorin continued, “that we got ourselves into this mess . . . and that it’s up to us to get out of it.”

Some faces turned indignant, but no one voiced their thoughts.  Curiosity had always been a temptation for Bilbo.  Ever since he was a small ankle biter he’d been sticking his nose into places it didn’t belong.  His father used to tell him ‘ _curiosity killed the cat_ ’, but then his mother would always swoop in after and follow up with, ‘ _but satisfaction brought it back_ ’.  So when he heard his voice ask, “What sort of mess?”  He hoped to whatever higher power there might be that his mother was in the right all along.

Gandalf, who’d been suspiciously quiet throughout this whole ordeal, perked up at Bilbo’s question.  A light shimmered behind his eyes and he even brought the cigar away from his mouth.  “Bilbo!”  He said loudly, acting as if he’d forgotten Bilbo had been in the room at all.  Holding back a scoff, Bilbo doubted that the old man forgot anything—ever.  “Could you be so kind as to turn some more lights on?”

“Ah, right,” he said, immediately standing up to perform his host duties—even though he’d never agreed to be a host in the first place.

Gandalf reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick, blue folded up piece of paper.  He began to unfold them and said, “Perhaps this will raise your dampened spirits, Thorin Oakenshield,” he placed the papers before Thorin, the now brighter lights making the markings easier to read. “Something to help you sort through this so called mess.”

“The Lonely Mountain,” Bilbo read out as he peaked around Thorin’s shoulder.  It was blue prints to some building.  A business, if Bilbo had to guess.

“Ah!”  Gloin, a thicker, read headed man shouted, “My horoscope said ‘ _now’s the time to act_ ’!  Just this morning, it did!”  A few other men groaned.

“It’s true!”  Oin, Gloin’s cousin—or so Bilbo thought—agreed.  “Our scouts have seen activity sparking up again! Low risk gambling, street races, underground fighting!  He couldn’t keep us out forever!  As we _knew_ he couldn’t!  The reign of the beast _will_ come to an end!”

Bilbo, who’d been off to the side of the room, adjusting a small mason jar of honey to face out properly, stilled in his movement.  When he turned around, he immediately looked to Gandalf, who in turn was looking at him.  Now, though, instead of a glimmer behind his eyes, Gandalf looked worried.  Almost unsure of himself.  Like he didn’t know what Bilbo would do.  “What beast?”  He asked.

“Well that would be a common nickname for Smaug Whivern, also known as ‘ _The Dragon_ ’,” a man with an obnoxiously large hat—Bilbo thought his name started with a ‘B’—informed him plainly.  His eyes were half lidded and he was smoking a cigarette like he had no care in the world.  “Smaug the Terrible,” he continued, “greatest and worst calamity of our age.”  Everyone around him was trying to give him non-verbal clues to shut up, but the man—Bofur! _That’s_ his name—wasn’t picking up on their hints.  “Realtor, developer.  Fraud and arson.  Blackmailer and rumored kidnapper.  Known for stealing—”

“Yes, thank you, I know what a crooked businessman is.” 

One of the younger men, an awkward looking lad whose facial hair hadn’t grown in evenly, stood up quickly making the legs of his chair screech against the wood floor, “I’m not afraid!” He declared proudly, “I’ll give him a taste of Iron Jackson!”  He smirked as he patted down his hip.  Something bulged out against his clothing, and Bilbo assumed that was the name of the young man’s gun.  The group laughed, some nervously, others endearingly, and the boy’s older brother grabbed his arm and yanked him back into his seat.

“It would be difficult enough with proper reinforcement and resources,” Balin chastised, “but we’re just thirteen men.  Not thirteen of the best, nor brightest.” He ended on a despairing note.  Most of the group retaliated, not liking those comments.  The three youngest men, and possibly the wildest, began shouting over the rest’s noise, though Bilbo wasn’t sure the brunet one was even shouting real words at all. 

“There may not be many of us,” Fili said, slamming a fist down on the table and rattling the silverware.  There was a sharp look in his eyes, like he knew what he was saying was important and knew that everyone would listen, “but we’re fighters!  Every one of us!  To the last man!” 

He slapped his hand down again, and Kili picked off where his brother left off, “And you’re all forgetting that we have a detective on our side!” He nodded to Gandalf, which greatly surprised Bilbo.  What sort of detective—or man of the law, for that matter—socialized with known criminals?  Maybe, Bilbo considered, it was part of some sting operation.  “Gandalf has taken down hundreds of dirty businessmen in his time!”

Before the agreeing mutters could get well and fully underway, Gandalf raised his hand and shook his head slightly, “Well, now, I—I—I wouldn’t _say_ —”

“How many, then?”  Dori, the older brother from before, asked.

“What?” Gandalf asked blankly.

“How many businessmen have you arrested?”

Thorin turned his head to look at Gandalf.  His eyes narrowed into such small slits the icy blue color was barely visible any longer.  Gandalf faked coughed awkwardly to give himself some time to think, “Go on,” Dori goaded, “give us a number!”  Then, it seemed, all hell broke loose.  Everyone stood, their chairs screeching painfully against the floor, and began shouting, yelling, pointing, and spitting.  It was horrible.  Bilbo wanted to call the police, but then he realized with horror, that technically the police were already there, thanks to Gandalf. 

“Ex—excuse me,” Bilbo tried to break up the fighting, but he could barely hear his own voice over the rabble, “please, please—”

“ _Quiet!_ ”  Thorin yelled straight from his diaphragm.  He sprung to his feet—gloriously, he did not cause his chair to screech—and at once the yelling at the table ceased.  Bilbo’s mouth popped open with awe.  He couldn’t believe just one man could have such an effect over the whole room.  “If we have noticed these . . . signs, do you think other won’t have noticed as well?”  The simple logic of his words sunk in to all the men.  Some looked abashed, while others looked angry at the thought. 

“The rumors have begun.  The Dragon has not been seen working in Erebor for nearly a decade.  The eyes of our enemies look to the Durin stronghold, wondering if now is the time to loot.  Wondering if our treasures have been left unprotected.  Do we do nothing?  While others go in and steal what is rightfully ours?  Or do we seize this chance to _take_ back Erebor?”  Now yelling, shouting, and spitting of a different kind have begun. 

Motivated by Thorin’s words, the men began to chant, “ _Baruk Khazâd!_ ” Over and over they chanted it while slamming their fists and cups down onto Bilbo’s poor dining room table.  He didn’t understand what the words meant—didn’t even know what language was being spoken—but he could feel the exhilaration and adrenaline buzzing through the air.  It made him feel almost giddy.

“Forget it!”  Balin—the buzz killer, apparently—shouted over them.  Everyone sat back into their seats to listen to him.  “The front gate is sealed.  Smaug built a solid fence around the place and even reinforced it with barbed wire.  There is no way into the Mountain.”

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true,” Gandalf smiled sly and pulled out what looked like an old, brass key.  Bilbo would even swear that the circle on the end resembled a skeleton.  Flipping it over in between his fingers, he flaunted it in front of Thorin.  Thorin looked flabbergasted.  Like he’d never seen something so amazing and impossible in all his life. 

“Where’d you get that?”

“It was given to me by your father.  By Thrain.  For safe keeping.”  Bilbo highly doubted that.  Gandalf didn’t seem like the ‘ _safe keeping_ ’ type. 

“That key,” Thorin said, “is my father’s—?”

“Your father’s skeleton key?  Yes.  He gave it to me just before . . . well, just before.”  Gandalf fake coughed again, and then took a long drag from his cigar.  He extended his hand closer to Thorin, “It’s yours now.”

“If there’s a key,” Fili said with a tone of confusion.  His brow was furrowed, like he didn’t understand.  “Then there must be a door,” Bilbo coughed over a snort, “but those were bricked over, weren’t they?”

“The ones Smaug knew about, yes,” Gandalf nodded.  He tapped the blueprints in front of Thorin with the crumbling tip of his cigar, “These prints are the originals, however, and if you take a look over here, you’ll see the hall way for a secret passage leading out of the cellar and into another building.”

Kili patted his brother on his back, a naively hopefully smile on his face.  It made him look much younger—so young, Bilbo rubbed his eyes and wondered what the boy’s age really was.  “There’s another way in,” he said.  His voice was so quiet and subdued, so opposite of how he usually spoke. 

“If . . . we can find it,” Gandalf admitted, “The prints don’t tell us which building it leads to.  Without the other building’s prints it’ll be practically invisible.  The answer must be somewhere on another blue print.  Perhaps this one’s twin.  Now, I did not have the clearance to find it, but there are others in the city . . . who can.”  Thorin’s expression turned cloudy, a realization burned behind his eyes as he looked up at Gandalf, but he stayed silent. 

“The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and an even greater amount of courage.”  He turned his head to look at Bilbo who looked right back, not comprehending the meaning behind the movement. “But,” he continued, “I believe with the right amount of determination, we can do it.”

“ _That’s_ why we need a burglar!”  Ori, the one with the patchy beard spoke up again, pointing at Bilbo.

Bilbo, however, had been looking down at the blue prints of The Lonely Mountain and hummed in agreement, “And a good one, too!” he commented, “An expert, probably.”

“And are you?” Gloin’s inquisitive voice asked.

Bilbo slowly looked up to see Gloin staring right at him.  Confused, he blinked and bounced back on his feet a bit, unconsciously trying to put space between them.  Assuming Gloin couldn’t be talking to him, he glanced behind his shoulder.  Surely someone had stood up while he wasn’t paying attention and snuck up behind him.  Seeing no one, Bilbo felt he should clarify, “Am I what?”

“He said he’s an expert!”  Oin cheered, causing some light hearted chuckles.

“Me?  No—no, no, I’m _not_ a burglar!  I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”  Unless you counted that _one_ time he stole a baby bottle pop from the mall, but really—he’d been _six_.

“Yes,” Balin agreed, “He’s not really burglar material,” he looked Bilbo up and down and then looked across the table to his brother, Dwalin, “is he?”

Bilbo nodded, pleased someone was seeing sense . . . even if that someone made him feel oddly small while doing it.  “Ah,” Dwalin nodded, “gang fights over territory is no place for such a . . . delicate person.  Especially one who looks like he can hardly throw a punch, much less take one.”  There were more mutters of agreement, but also some shouts of contradiction.  Bilbo gave Dwalin a thumb up and a single nod of his head.  He didn’t care what the man said about him—in fact, he was right, Bilbo _couldn’t_ throw a punch—so long as they agreed they didn’t need his help.

“Enough!”  Gandalf shouted, standing up to his full height.  His head brushed against the ceiling and his cigar fell to the ground in an ashy mess.  “If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he shall be!”  Bilbo opened his mouth to refute that statement, but was struck dumb by the sheer force that emanated off Gandalf.  “You need someone who can think quickly on their feet, weave a lie so perfectly it’d make a spider proud, and quiet enough that no one will hear them sneak on past!  And while Smaug and his men know about the Sons of Durin and what you all look like, he’ll never be expecting a non-threatening, middle class man!  Nor, would I imagine, even look twice at him!  This gives us a distinct advantage.

“You asked me,” he said to Thorin, sitting back down.  Bilbo blinked several times in a row.  Was the room beginning to spin?  And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his tongue to work and swallow properly.  “To find the fourteenth member of this entourage and I’ve found him: Bilbo Baggins.  There’s a lot more to him than appearances suggest,” Thorin rolled his eyes and turned his gaze outwards to his men, locking eyes with Balin.  “And he has more to offer than any of you know!”  He side eyed Bilbo, “Even himself.”

Bilbo reared back at the words, feeling both offended and please simultaneously.  Gandalf leaned closer to Thorin, looked him straight in the eyes, and said, “ _Trust me._ ”

“Fine,” Thorin said monotonously, “We’ll do this your way.”

“What?”  Bilbo panicked, bouncing up onto the balls of his feet to try and grab Thorin’s attention.  “N—no, no—”

“Get him the contract,” Thorin ordered.

“What?”  Bilbo’s head swam.  What was even happening?

Balin stood up, a thick roll of paper in his hand, “Here’s your standard contract,” he held it out for Bilbo, “just stating protocol for out of pocket expenses, time required, services rendered, funeral arrangements,” he nodded blandly, “so forth.”

Thorin grabbed the outstretched contract from Balin’s hand and flung it behind him, slapping it into Bilbo’s chest.  “Funeral arrangements?”  Bilbo repeated.  He turned, unfolded the entirety of the contract, and began to read.  “Oh,” he sighed, he thought he heard Thorin mumble something to Gandalf behind him, but he paid them no mind.  His thoughts were entirely on the words in front of him.  “One-fourteenth of the total profit, if any,” he hummed, that actually didn’t sound too bad, “seems fair.”  He mumbled the rest of the contract aloud, beneath his breath, as his feet turned him in slow circles.  “Wait a minute,” he muttered, there was a part of the contract that veered off page quite comically, if the words weren’t so dark.  He turned the pages sideways to get a better read, “Lacerations?”  Well, that didn’t sound nice.  “Evisceration?” How would one even _get_ eviscerated?  Reading the next word he stopped and looked at the gang still sitting calmly in his dining room, “ _Incineration_?” 

“Oh, yes,” Bofur nodded, “He’s not called The Dragon for nothing, you know.  He’ll melt the flesh right off your bones if he catches you.”

Bilbo looked up to his ceiling for a moment, but finding no answers there he looked down to the floor, “Hah,” he squeaked. 

“You all right, son?”  Balin’s voice called out.

Placing his hand on his knees, Bilbo tried to steady his breathing, but ended up pushing out several more bursts of air than he was drawing in.  “Oh, yes, right,” he said, never one to draw attention to himself over something like an illness or light headedness, “Just feeling a bit faint.”  He was beginning to feel a bit better, after all.  The dizziness would pass soon.

Then Bofur decided to speak again, “Think pig on a fire spit, then replace the pig with yourself.”

“I—I need some air,” Bilbo self-medicated calmly, trying to ignore Bofur.  The worst part was, Bilbo suspected Bofur actually thought he was helping.  The man—for a gang member, it seemed—didn’t have a malicious bone in his body.

“Bright light,” he continued, “searing pain, then death!”

Bilbo exhaled some more air then looked up at Bofur.  He would be fine.  Totally fine.  He repeated this to himself over and over again.  Opening his mouth to tell everyone that much, he felt all the blood rush from his head and with a crisp, “Nope,” he fell back onto the floor and passed out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos are always appreciated and help keep me motivated! So please let me know if you liked it :)


	4. The Start of an Adventure

Bilbo's eyes fluttered open and for one blissful moment he thought he'd imagined everything.  Gandalf, the strange men running amuck in his house, Gandalf, reading a terribly long contract that detailed his possible demise, Gandalf, and the description of a man named Smaug . . . oh, and Gandalf.  Unfortunately for Bilbo, his one blissful moment ended quite abruptly when Gandalf's half concerned, half exasperated face loomed over his own.  “I'm all right,” Bilbo said gruffly as he blinked several more times and attempted to slowly sit up.  “I'm all right,” he felt the back of his head where it hit the floor.  There would be a terrible lump on it by tomorrow morning, he was sure.  Perhaps if he iced it before he went to bed he could lessen the swelling some.  Shaking his head, he said once more, “I'm all right.  I just need to sit down, I believe.”

Several rough hands—accompanied by short, stubby fingers—grabbed at his chest and shoulders in what he believed was an attempt to help move him somewhere more comfortable.  Distantly, Bilbo understood they were trying to be kind, but he could hardly appreciate their meaning when the means were adding more bruises to his already banged up body.  Eventually though, his aching bones came into contact with the soft cushions of his wing chair and let out a moan of appreciation.  “Perhaps,” Gandalf's low voice sounded from behind him, “we should give our burglar some space.”  There were a few mumbles of agreement, and with just a few more loud shuffling feet, the Sons of Durin all cleared out of Bilbo's living room—probably, he mused, to raid what was left of his kitchen cabinets.

Wiggling his shoulders up and down, Bilbo snuggled deeper into the chair's cushioned back with a small, contented smile on his lips.  Feeling Gandalf's gaze on him, even with his eyes closed once more in an attempt at rest, Bilbo felt the need to clarify, “Oh yes, I should be fine after a bit of rest.”

“A bit of rest?”  Gandalf barked out a laugh as he spoke, causing Bilbo's brows to furrow and eyes to open so he could look at Gandalf's pinched face.  “That's all you've been doing it seems!”  He began to pace up and down the length of the room.  “What happened to you?”  He mumbled to himself.  “Since when did doilies, fine china, and your grandmother's dining room table become the most important things in your life?  What happened to that small child I knew who'd play outside until long after the sun set?”

“I'm sorry,” Bilbo tried to interrupt, “Have we met before—?”

Gandalf wasn't listening, though, “Who tore up his clothes and came home with an inch of dirt packed into his hair?” He continued the tirade.  “What happened to Belladonna Took's _son_?”

“What do you—how dare you—why would you—what’s my mother got to do with anything?”  Bilbo asked petulantly as his bottom lip jutted out and he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Your mother, Bilbo Baggins, was one of the best thieves there ever was!  That's what she's got to do with this!”

“My mother was not a thief!”  Bilbo screeched, his cheeks turning red with the half lie that just popped out from his mouth.  “She was a gardener and a respectable member of the community, thank you very much!”

Gandalf's eyes narrowed with suspicion, “I believe we both know that statement to be only half true.  Hmm, Bilbo?”  He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.  “She was, after all, sentenced to community service when she was sixteen for stealing a car.”

“W—what?”  Bilbo sputtered, “How did you—”

“And the only reason she got off on just community service,” Gandalf's voice rose, drowning out Bilbo's protest, “was because it was her first offense.  Or,” he paused, a wry glint shining behind his eyes, “perhaps 'first known offense' would be more apt.”

“How do you know all this?”  Bilbo hissed.  His patience with the old man had worn thin.  “My mother was sixteen at the time, as you said, and was tried in juvenile court.  Those records are _sealed_.”

“Ah,” Gandalf nodded almost solemnly, “Yes, they are.  But that fact is neither here nor there considering I heard the details straight from the horse’s mouth, hmm?”  He stopped to let out a wheezing chuckle, “You'll see, Bilbo my boy, you'll have a tale of our own to tell when you come back.”

“Can you promise that I _will_ come back?”  Bilbo tilted his head and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.  He was waiting for Gandalf's response—waiting for him to lie.

“No.” He shook his head, “And if you do, you will not be the same.”

Bilbo nodded and reaffirmed his answer with a sharp, crisp tone, “That's what I thought.  Sorry, Gandalf, but I can't sign this,” he jerked his head to the contract that lay flat on the coffee table before him.  “You've got the wrong man.”

Sighing, Gandalf's eyes creased with disappointment, “Then I'm afraid you will regret your decision for the rest of your life.”  Bilbo turned his face away, refusing to look at the other man any longer and closed his eyes.  He heard Gandalf grab the contract off the table with a low sigh, his feet shuffle out of the room—scuffing up his wood floors—and then heard him mumble a few words.  Scrunching up his face, he next heard Thorin and Balin's low voices join in, but no matter how hard he concentrated, Bilbo couldn't make out more than a few words.  He thought he heard the words 'wealth', 'Erebor', and 'grandfather', but if hard pressed he couldn't say for certain.  Shaking his head in defeat, Bilbo stood up, readjusted the ties of his robe, and bee lined to his room with the hopes that by the time he woke up in the morning, all those strange men—those gangsters—would be gone from his house; leaving him to clean and repair it in peace.

 

* * *

 

 

It was difficult for Bilbo to fall asleep with all the rowdy laughter and the sounds of large items slamming against other large items—Bilbo could only imagine what—not to mention the crashing noises of glass breaking.  Yes, there were many reasons why sleep stayed away for most of the night.  So when the morning sun's rays peeked through the gap in his curtains and woke him up, he stared up at his ceiling in confusion for several long minutes.  It was quiet.  Eerily quiet.  He couldn't hear the shuffling of feet outside his door, not a single hacking cough after smoking a cigarette, not even a hint of a chuckle could be heard.

Flinging his sheets off his body, Bilbo threw on his robe and with quick, quiet feet he exited his room to peek out into the hallway.  Seeing nothing and no one, he tentatively stepped further out into his home.  The house was almost eerily normal.  Everything was back into its original place.  His kitchen cabinet, though much emptier than it was twenty four hours ago, neatly stored the leftovers that had been, just last night, scattered and thrown about the kitchen.  Getting on his knees to check the floor below his dining room table, Bilbo could see barely a trace amount of scuff marks from when the gangsters pushed their chairs out.  He couldn't even find anything that had been broken!  No picture frame glass, mirrors, vases—there wasn't even any shattered pieces left in his trash bin, but Bilbo knew he heard several crashes last night.  Humming to himself and scratching his head, Bilbo looked around his terribly empty apartment and felt an almost hollow feeling in his chest.

“Hello?”  He called out, his voice small and tinted with just a hint of hope.  He wasn't sure what he was hoping for, exactly.  He knew no one else was in the house.  He'd searched every crack and crevice himself, so he'd gotten what he'd wanted.  He'd gotten his house back.  What more could he hope for?  Except, he thought as he wandered aimlessly down his hallways, except his house was awfully lonesome now that he was all alone.  Wandering back down into his sitting room Bilbo stood in the archway and rocked back and forth between the heels and balls of his feet, trying to think of what to do next.  He bit his lip and thought about grabbing his dust rag and having a go at his books and nick-knacks, but the place looked spotless—even more than it was before.

Myrtle cried out softly from her sitting place on his kitchen table, gently reminding Bilbo to feed her breakfast.  “Ah, of course,” he mumbled under his breath before scurrying over to the cabinet below his kitchen sink where he kept the wet cat food.  Spooning the contents out into Myrtle’s dish, he placed the food on the ground and kissed Myrtle on her head, “Silly kitten, what do you think you’re doing?  You know better than to get up on tables,” he gave her one last affectionate ear rub before placing her down in front of the bowl.  Standing back up he saw a crumpled up paper now in the place Myrtle was just resting.  “Oh?”  He picked it up and belated realized it was the contract he read last night.  “Oh.”  He puffed out his cheeks and pursed his lips in thought.  What did he really have to lose if he went on this adventure, he wondered?  He had no family left—save for Lobelia, and lord knows she doesn’t _really_ count—to depend on him or worry about him.  The only living left to depend on him, in fact, was his cat, and he could just leave a note for his gardener about feeding and litter box instructions.  His house, so very large and fine, felt terribly empty now that he knew what a full house sounded and felt like.  And yes, he thought, this adventure—his very first adventure, and gosh, didn’t that set off his heart like a dose of adrenaline—would be dangerous.  It could, in fact, be his last adventure as well as his first, but—brows furrowing with determinations, Bilbo dashed off to his room, grabbed a travel bag he kept in his closet and threw everything he could think he’d need into it.

Blasting out of his front door and down his front porch steps, not even bothering to lock up, Bilbo cut through his neighbor’s yards—over fences, through gardens, and past the grumpy neighbors themselves—towards the main road that led into the city with an overwhelming swell of hope inside his chest that the Sons of Durin hadn’t yet left for their adventure.  Sprinting as fast as he could—which, albeit, was not very fast—Bilbo turned a sharp corner and could see the gang and Gandalf preparing to mount their hogs and ride off.  “Wait!”  He wheezed out, “Wait!”  He called again, slightly louder this time.

Thorin twisted around to see who was calling for them and a mixture of peace and surprise glossed over his face.  Bilbo tried not to pay too much heed to Thorin’s expression, however, and instead walked straight up to Balin and handed him the now sweaty and tattered contract.  “I—I signed it,” he huffed out, placing his hands on his hips and trying his hardest to regain his breath.  His lungs felt like someone had set up a camp site, decided they wanted s’mores, and packed the bottom of the muscles with sharp, pointy kindling and set fire to it and let the smoke waft up into the back of his throat, making him cough harshly every few seconds.

Balin flipped through the contract, saw that Bilbo had signed at all the necessary points and smiled kindly at him.  “Everything appears to be in order.  Welcome, Mr. Baggins, to the Sons of Durin.”  The men cheered—Fili and Kili the loudest—and Bilbo couldn’t help it, he looked over to Thorin to see his response, a wide smile on his tired face.  The look he thought he’d seen before, though, the one that looked faintly like relief, was gone—maybe it had never been there—and in its place was a look of pure apathetic disinterest.  As if Thorin couldn’t have cared less if Bilbo had turned up or not.

With a slow, bored roll of his eyes, Thorin ordered, “Get him on a bike.”

Eyes widening with horror, Bilbo hadn’t thought about transportation before now.  Looking around wildly he saw that everyone, even Gandalf, was riding, or would be riding, a motorcycle.  “No, no,” Bilbo backtracked.  He coughed uncomfortably, “No.  I—that won’t be necessary, thank you.  I—I can run back up to my house and grab my car—no, really it’s fine!  It’s inconspicuous, really—a minivan!  What’s more conspicuous than a mini-van?”  He gave a nervous chuckle which was cut off abruptly when he heard the sound of multiple motors turning over and the gang members mounting their motorcycles.  Thorin, Gandalf, and a few others slowly drove down the road, starting up the caravan.

“Come on, Mr. Baggins,” Bofur awkwardly walked his bike up to Bilbo’s side.  His large hat was still on his head, but squished beneath his helmet.  “I’ve got a side car you can use.”  Bilbo side eyes the rickety thing with disdain and suspicion.  The thing looked like it’d fall apart once they went higher than ten miles per hour.  “Come on,” Bofur pushed again, “We don’t wanna fall behind now do we?”

Scrunching his nose, but knowing they really shouldn’t fall too behind, Bilbo sighed and grabbed the extra helmet Bofur offered and settled into the side car.  His hands searched the area around his legs for a seat belt and after finding nothing he looked up and asked, “Ah, Bofur? Where’s the seat belt?”

“Seat belt?  Bofur repeated, his large brown eyes widening with confusion.  “Don’t need no seatbelts on a bike, Mr. Bilbo.”

“ _What_?”  Bilbo tried to bark out, but it was too late.  Bofur slammed on the gas and off they sped after the rest of the Sons of Durin.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!
> 
> Please leave a comment of a kudos--thank you kindly!! 
> 
> Next chapter in about 2 weeks?


	5. Hindsight is 20-20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo learns more about the Sons of Durin's past which helps him understand the present and prepare for the future.

Bilbo's small town of Hobbiton was located at the Southern most end of Shire County, and over five hours away from Dale City. Bilbo had made such a drive before, not regularly, but often enough, and knew that the trip, though long and tedious, could be made in one move with only a few restroom and food breaks. However, it seemed the Sons of Durin had other ideas. Perhaps it was because they rode on motorcycles instead of cars—something Bilbo hated with every fiber of his being, even if he had named his side car after his cat, Myrtle, because of the way it purred—but their caravan definitely went slower than had it just been Bilbo alone. They made frequent pit stops along the way; one of the reasons for them was to ensure no one had wandered from the main group or gotten lost, and the other, it seemed, was so Thorin had a chance to look at his map. The map didn't seem to help too much, however, because once the five hour mark had come and gone, Bilbo could swear they'd only traveled one hundred miles, leaving over two hundred to go. Scowling, Bilbo wondered if he shouldn't suggest a more direct route to the gang, but in the end decided to hold his tongue. There were plenty of apps now a days that could help out their misguided leader. And besides, if Thorin wanted help, he would have to ask. Yes, Bilbo thought, that seemed perfectly fair to him.

It was early evening, perhaps just past five, when the Sons of Durin pulled into the parking lot of a decrepit and bed bug infested motel called 'The Farmhouse'. Scrunching up his nose in disgust, Bilbo looked upon with place with the thought that it had been abandoned. There were only a few lights on within the building, and the vacancy sign over looking the street they drove up on flickered ominously. If Bilbo were being honest, he'd say it looked like the perfect setting for a horror film. Thorin dismounted his bike first and shook his head, making his wild and dark hair flutter about like a lion's mane. Blushing with both attraction and self-frustration, Bilbo averted his eyes towards his lap. “We'll stay here for the night and regroup.” Thorin said, then continued under his breath, “and find out where we bloody are.”

“I knew the man that used to own this place,” Gandalf muttered to himself. “He owned it with his wife . . . they wanted to make it a Bed and Breakfast, but then . . .,” he trailed off, his eyes glazing over in deep thought.

“Oin, Gloin,” Thorin continued, successfully ignoring Gandalf.

“Yeah?” They both answered.

“Go get us three rooms from whoever owns this damn place. Make sure to pay with cash.” He handed them a wad of crinkled bills from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and they quickly scurried off to find the front desk.

“I don't think it wise to stay here,” Gandalf said with a cough. “We could go somewhere in Rivendell County—it's just a bit further west than here. Once I stayed at an inn called Hidden Valley there, and they had the softest down comforter a man could ask for.” The twinkle in his eye and soft smile were meant to help sell the pitch to Thorin, Bilbo could tell, but the man was just not having it.

“I've told you,” Thorin sneered disdainfully, “I won't go near Rivendell County.”

“Why not?” Gandalf stood straighter now, leaning less on his cane, and using his full height to his advantage. “The Lindon's could help us! They'd offer food, shelter, advice! All things this place sorely lack.”

“I do not need their advice,” Thorin gritted through his teeth stubbornly. His brow furrowed and Bilbo could see that in his eyes, so blue and so hard and so cold, that his mind would not be changed.

“Elrond could help us!” Gandalf beseeched.

“Help?” Thorin spat out, some spittle flying from his mouth and nestling into his beard. “Where was his help when Smaug stole Erebor from beneath our feet? Loan sharks preyed on my people. Other vile creatures looted and ransacked our property in Moria, and what did the great Elrond Lindon do then? Hmm?” He paused for barely a second, “Nothing. You ask me to seek the help of the very man—the very people—who stabbed my father and grandfather in the back. Something I cannot, and will not do.”

Bilbo was very confused. His head had bounced back and forth between Gandalf and Thorin as they spoke, almost as if he were watching a tennis match play out, and felt his head swam with questions. Who was this Elrond and what did he do to Thorin's family? What was Moria? Smaug stole Erebor? He blinked several times and then shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind.

“You are neither of them,” Gandalf said seriously, “And I did not give you the blue prints to Erebor so you could hold on to the past.”

“I did not know they were yours to keep.” Thorin told him coolly. Gandalf stood perhaps two heads taller than he, but in that moment Thorin held himself just as tall as the older man.

“Fine then,” Gandalf nodded and harrumphed beneath his breath. “Fine then. You stay here in this dump. See the good it'll do you. I, however,” he walked back to his bike and revved the engine, “will be enjoying the luxuries of a hotel that is _not_ infested with fleas.”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo called out from his side car. His voice cracked with the first signs of panic. “Gandalf, where are you going?” Surely he wasn't leaving them—leaving _him_? Surely not.

“To seek the company of the sane, Mr. Baggins! I've had enough gang members for one day!” And with that as a farewell, Gandalf tore off into the night. Bilbo, with wide, uncomprehending eyes, watched the red lights of the bike's tail lights until they were no more than little specks in the horizon. “He's coming back, though, isn't he?” Bilbo asked after a few moments silence. Looking up at Bofur, Bilbo felt the blood leave his cheeks when he saw the look of pure uncertainty on the man's face.

“Well, what are you waiting around for?” Thorin snarled at the group of men that'd stood by and watched his exchange with Gandalf. “Get off your sorry asses and get to work! Fili, Kili—wipe down and check the bikes. Make sure they're all good for tomorrow's ride. The rest of you know what needs to be done,” the men mumbled their agreeance and began to mill about. Some went off, down the street towards the shops and restaurants they passed. Some went the opposite direction and seemed to be scouting the area. And some began to unpack the bikes and pull out items like blankets, maps, and other items to be brought into their rooms. Balin and Dwalin walked up to Thorin's side and the three of them walked towards the direction of the front desk where Gloin and Oin had wandered off to.

Not at all sure of what he himself was expected to do, Bilbo stood awkwardly by the side as the others rushed about him. Shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, he picked at a hangnail on his left thumb and wished he had brought his nail clipping set when he's rushed from his home that morning. Earlier on, about fifteen minutes into their ride, he realized he'd forgotten to pack a travel packet of tissues and almost called out to turn the caravan around and return for it, but thankfully had held his tongue at the last minute. He reassured himself that CVS's and Walgreen's were a dime a dozen anywhere he went and so would easily be able to stock up on such supplies during one of their pit stops.

Licking his dry lips, Bilbo tried to swallow but found if oddly difficult to do so. He then tried to stop swallowing, but that seemed to confuse his mouth—especially his tongue—and ended up almost gagging instead. Sighing hotly though his nostrils, he walked over to the bikes. Fili and Kili were off to one end of the line of motorcycles and he to the other. He took the time to softly pat to metal of his side car almost affectionately. He was just thinking of sending a text to his gardener to make sure Myrtle at home had been fed and her litter box cleaned out when he heard the shrieking noise of a woman in the distance. Standing up like a shot, Bilbo looked wildly all around, trying to figure out where the scream had originated from.

Taking a few steps closer to Fili and Kili, he asked, “What do you think that was?”

Sharing a mischievous look, Kili smirked and then widened his eyes with a faux frightened look, “Looters, if you're lucky.”

“L—looters?”

“Loan Sharks if you're not,” Fili continued, sharing a quick, conspiratorial grin with his brother. “Cut throats, they are. Forget to pay once and,” he made a slicing movement across his throat and then stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes upwards. “The area's crawling with criminals like them.” He finished casually.

“Oh, yeah,” Kili continued with an almost solemn nod of his head. “The looters come in the early hours of the morning when everyone's asleep, so we'll be safe from them tonight . . . but the Official Resource Collectors—”

“ORCs, we call them,” Fili chimed in.

“Yeah, yeah, the ORCs,” Kili nodded quickly, “if you owe them, there's no time that you're safe. They strike quickly and quietly. No screams, just lots of blood.”

Bilbo's mouth dropped open in silent horror. What had he gotten himself into? Why, oh why, had he ever left the safety of his home? Hearing a metal can being kicked over in the distance, Bilbo jumped—feet leaving the ground and all—and looked around like a cornered animal. Kili and Fili began to laugh, their eyes closing in their merriment and the skin crinkling in the corners. Fili's head tipped backwards to he could properly let out his full lungs worth of laughter, and Kili had to duck his head down and wipe away a few tears from laughing so hard.

“You think that's funny?” Thorin's monotone, unamused voice pierced through their laughs. “You like the ORCs are a joke?”

“We didn't mean anything by it,” Kili immediately sobered up. His big brown puppy dog eyes stared at his uncle, hoping for clemency from his wrath. Fili winced at his brother's side, preparing for a long lecture, or at least harsh words from his uncle.

“Of course you didn't,” Thorin told them disdainfully with a shake of his head. He walked past them towards one of the rooms. “You know nothing.” he unlocked and entered one of the rooms, slamming the door behind him. Both Fili and Kili looked thoroughly rebuked which greatly surprised Bilbo. They looked as if Thorin had disowned them, but it couldn't have been that serious a matter. At least, Bilbo didn't understand how it could be. The two boys had just been playing a practical joke on him, he could see that now. ORCs might not be something to joke about—Bilbo, for one, would never—but Thorin's reaction was a bit dramatic.

Balin must have picked up on his confusion because he smiled sympathetically to Bilbo and patted his shoulder. “Don't mind him, laddie. Thorin has more reason than most to hate ORCs if truth be told. You see,” he paused and drew in a deep breath. It was then Bilbo knew he was in for a long story. “After the Dragon took Erebor, Thror—Thorin's grandfather—tried to reclaim our old territory in Moria, an old mining town a few states over. But he, well, there wasn't much money to be had then, not with Erebor gone, so he took out a loan from an ORC . . . the worst and most vile of ORCs there ever was. Azog Gundabad was his name—Azog, the Defiler.

“When the time came and Thror couldn't repay his debt, Azog kidnapped Thrain—Thorin's father—to use as collateral against Thror. Well, I don't know how, or if it was even true, but Thror claimed to have the money and set up a meet to regain his son from the ORC. But . . . the deal went south, and Azog killed Thror—shot him straight through the head. Thrain, well, we don't know what happened to him. Never did see him at the meet to begin with. Dead, we presume.

“We were leaderless. Azog's mean were upon us—defeat and death surrounded us on all sides. But then I saw him, a young man facing down the great ORC. Thorin had concealed a pistol in his jacket and shot the damn bastard! Azog learned that day never to underestimate the Sons of Durin. With Thorin leading us, we rallied and pushed back Azog's men until all our enemies were defeated. But,” he said with a long sigh, “it was not without a cost. Only a few of us had survived. I thought to myself then,” he told Bilbo as he gazed at the direction of the room Thorin currently presided, “there is the man I could follow. There is the one I could call Leader.”

The door to the room Thorin was in opened, and out he walked. He made no indication that he'd heard any of Balin's story, or that he cared what they were speaking about. Bilbo scrunched his face, wondering if he should ask. Since he'd already bit his tongue twice that day, however, he couldn't hold his question back a third time, “And Azog? What happened to him?”

Thorin, who had been passing them at the time, was the one who answered, “He slunk back into the rat infested hole he originated from after I shot him. He died of his wounds long ago.” There was no remorse in his voice. No hint of regret. Bilbo swallowed slowly. He felt a dead weight rest upon his chest as he realized how grave his situation was. He was nestled in with a gang. A real, notorious, and probably wanted gang. One that apparently had no issues killing people. Biting down on his already chapped lip, Bilbo closed his eyes and wondered how he'd gotten himself into this mess. Then, more importantly, how he'd get himself out of it.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos/comments/whathaveyou are always (always) appreciated. They also help me stay motivated when writing!
> 
> Also, I'm very open to any prompts so long as its SFW so if you have an AU or story you'd like for me to write, I'd be more than happy!
> 
> P.S. Sorry if there's any minor errors. I kind of rushed the editing for this one b/c I'm tired....so forgive me? Yeah? Cool.


	6. Troll(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had sixteen. Now they have fourteen . . . How the blazes did that happen?

Bilbo stared out the motel window, desperately wishing that Gandalf's bike light would crest over the darkened parking lot, but with each passing moment, as minutes ticked by and nothing changed, Bilbo became more and more discouraged. Huffing a burst of hot air out of his nose for the umpteenth time that night, Bilbo looked back at the men scattered around the room. Some of the men were passed out on the beds and some on the floor. Only half the men were in this room, however, Thorin, Dwalin, Balin and a few other men were located in the room next door.

“Stop it,” Bofur chastised Bombur, pulling a duffle bag full of food away from his brother, “you've had plenty.” Noticing Bilbo watching them, Bofur smiles kindly and throws a few granola bars towards him. “Do me a favor, Bilbo, and give those to Kili and Fili. They're outside keeping watch.”

Gathering the granola bars that had fallen to the floor due to his inability to catch, Bilbo stuttered out an acquiesce and made his way out into the cold, quiet dark that was the parking lot. He spotted the two young boys quickly.  They were standing on the other end of the parkinglot, a decorative hedge was planted in front of them, seperating them from the bikes.  With silent feet he made his way over to them. Kili and Fili were starring blankly before them, an uncomprehending look darkening their eyes. Slowly looking between the boys and the bikes, Bilbo asked, “What's the matter?”

Kili, who hadn't heard Bilbo's approach, jumped slightly at the sound of his voice and blushed brightly as a result. Rubbing the back of his neck, he grinned broadly—too broadly, Bilbo noted, seeing as how much the skin around his mouth stretched to accommodate such a smile—and laughed nervously. “Well, you see, we're supposed to be keeping watch of the bikes . . .”

“And we've run into a . . . problem,” Fili continued, not looking away from the row of motorcycles. His brows were furrowed and his mouth set in a deep frown as he tried to work something out in his head.

“We _had_ sixteen,” Kili stressed.

“Now we have fourteen,” Fili finished, his eyes flicking back and forth as he counted and recounted the bikes.

“Well that's not good,” Bilbo stated the obvious, mostly to himself, as the boys returned to staring at the bikes. “Shouldn't we tell Thorin?”

Blinking and straightening his spine, Fili finally looked away from the bikes down to Bilbo and firmly shook his head, “Uh, no. Let's not do that. It'll only worry him,” he glanced quickly at his brother who vigorously shook his head in agreement. “As our official burglar, we thought you might like to look into it.”

Bilbo's eyes flitted between the two, trying to figure a way to politely decline such an offer while simultaneously trying to figure out how this mystery required the skills of a burglar. “Umm,” he stalled, still thinking.

Luckily he didn't have to come up with an answer because just half a moment later, Fili hissed, “Light!” And pulled Kili and Bilbo down to the ground with him.

Kili crouched on the balls of his toes to look out at the approaching light. “What is it?” Bilbo asked, curiosity overcoming his fear.

“Trolls,” he replied.

“ _Trolls_?” Bilbo squeaked. He knew the young siblings were jokesters but this was too much. “Trolls do _not_ exist,” he hissed through his teeth.

“What?” Fili asked, confused. Then, with a strike of mental illumination, he rolled his eyes and snickered. “Not trolls, trolls—that's their last name. Troll.”

“And there are three of them,” Kili added, joining in on the mistimed mirth. “So they're Trolls. Plural.”

“And capitalized." Fili mentioned offhandedly, then continued, "Bert, Tom, and William Troll."  Fili frowned in thought once again. “What are they doing so far south, I wonder?”

“Stealing our bikes, apparently.” Kili supplied, glaring at them from his crouched position.

Narrowing his eyes, Bilbo wondered what these three men looked like—partially to see if they deserved the name Troll—and slowly, as not to make a sound, moved into a similar position as Kili so he could look over the hedge that blocked them from the Trolls' vision. Well, it seemed to Bilbo that these men did indeed deserve the name of Troll. They were tall—not as tall as Gandalf, but taller than any of the Sons of Durin—with short, muscular legs, long, thick arms, and squat faces that made it seem like they'd been stepped on while children. Each of them had blond hair, cut short to the scalp that made them look almost bald. Bilbo winced at the sight of them. They were most unfortunate looking.

When they'd finally crossed the road in front of the motel and through the parking lot to the bikes, one of them grabbed onto the handlebars of a bike and with a grunt hefted it over his shoulders and began walking away carrying the bike fireman style. The other two, who weren't as strong as the third—and really, Bilbo wondered with his jaw dropped halfway to the ground, who was?—shared the weight of another bike and began to follow the first across the street in front of the hotel.

“Why don't you stop them?” Bilbo whispered even though the Trolls were probably too far away to hear.

“What, just the two of us?” Kili asked, eyes wide with shock.

“We've got no weapons, for starters,” Fili started to explain. “And the Trolls are not something you want to go up against without those.”

“Why not?” Bilbo didn't understand. Sure, the Trolls were larger and obnoxiously strong, but Fili and Kili were strong as well--or, at least Bilbo assumed from how many chair they'd broken in his house by hefting them up into the air--and with the added element of surprise on their side.

“Too risky,” Kili said, looking more serious than Bilbo had ever seen him. His dark eyes stared straight into Bilbo's gray ones. Pursing his lips, Kili continued, “Trolls are notorious for stealing things and stripping them for parts.”

“And they're not known for stopping with machines, if you catch our meaning,” Fili continued, just as serious and twice as solemn as his brother.

“What, like, human parts?” Bilbo asked after a few seconds of silence. He hoped he had guessed wrong, but when neither brother corrected him he gulped. “Well, we've got to do something!” He whispered in a rush. “Without those bikes we're stranded!”

“Yes, you should!” Kili's eyes brightened with an idea. Bilbo began to shake his head with refusal, but Kili plowed on, “The Trolls are slow and pretty stupid! You're small and fast—you can follow them no problem. They'll never see you!”

“No, n—no, no,” Bilbo tried to say, but couldn't quite manage to get the boys to hear his refusal.

“It's perfectly safe,” he continued, “we'll be right behind you!”

“If you run into trouble,” Fili added, overly excited now as well, “rev twice like a Corvette, and once like a Ferrari.” He nodded like this was the best plan in the world when in reality Bilbo didn't even think he could tell the difference between the two cars, much less imitate their engine noises. Practically pushing him onto his back, Fili and Kili ushered him away from their hidden shrub and towards the backs of the Trolls.

Bilbo followed the Trolls—from a great distance, of course—across the street, through a series of interconnecting parking lots that used to belong to a strip mall.   Now they were just used to park conspicuously inconspicuous cars that looked like they'd come straight out of a crime drama--the type an undercover cop would use--all the way to a storage warehouse. The sound of metal being crushed greeted Bilbo's ears as he walked closer to their base of operations. Peering around the corner of a storage unit, he could see the Sons of Durin's bikes thrown carelessly into a heap by the side of the room, next to an industrial sized freezer. One that restaurants used to freeze massive amounts of meats for later use.

Mouth dry, Bilbo tried to get a closer look.  He could see the Trolls all wore matching leather jackets with their names printed on the backs. Thinking back to Kili's comment about them being stupid and wondered if the decoration was due to the Trolls not knowing which jacket belonged to which brother, or because they forgot each others—and possibly their own—names. Shaking his head of the thought, Bilbo forced down what little saliva had pooled int his mouth and focused on what each Troll brother was doing.

Tom stood closest to the bikes, unconsciously tapping his foot against one of the tires in an almost compulsive way. William looked over Bert's shoulder as he sat on the floor and counted numerous dollar bills in front of him.

“Two hundred yesterday, two hundred worth today, and fuck it,” Bert groaned and threw his head back to gaze at the ceiling, “looks like another two hundred tomorrow, too.”

“Shut up,” Tom called out, crossing his arms over his chest, “These ain't Prius's here,” he jerked his chin to the biked next to him. “They're good condition Harley's. They'll fetch good prices.”

“Not as good as their owners would have,” William chimed in with a vicious snarl of a smirk. Bilbo shivered when he thought about the implications of his statement.

“Yeah, well can't keep doing that, now can we?” Bert snarled back, obviously annoyed with the situation. “Can't keep raising suspicions, can we?”

“Not unless we get rid of the suspicious as well,” William qualified.

“Well Soleil wasn't being get rid of, was she?” Tom said angrily, his gray-white face turning a blotchy red. “She's the reason we're down here, now ain't she?”

The other two grumbled their agrreeance and went back to their silent work. Bilbo took this moment to take out his phone. Making revving noises at this point would have been idiotic anyway, and with a quick swipe of his screen, he brought up the cell phone's camera and zoomed in on the motorcycles. He'd take a quick photo, send it to Thorin and the rest with the address, and they'd come running to the rescue. Smiling proudly at his resourcefulness, Bilbo aimed the camera at the bikes and snapped the picture.

Too late he realized his mistake. He'd forgotten to turn the automatic setting off, and with it the flash. “What was that?” One of the Trolls asked. Bilbo didn't see which. Eyes wide, muscles frozen with fear, he tried his best not to bring more attention to himself.  The Trolls looked for the source of the flash, and upon seeing Bilbo, shouted, “Oi! Get him!” Bilbo didn't have time to run. With no time at all, three Trolls were on him, dragging him into the storage until by his arm, leg, and hair.

“Who're you?” Tom asked, his face so close to Bilbo's that he could smell the sour scent of his rotten teeth. Holding on to his gag reflex, Bilbo tried to answer but nothing more than a squeak escaped him. Snorting out a laugh, Tom stood up to his full height. “Looks like an over sized squirrel to me.”

The brothers laughed, but then William grabbed his hand and with terrible ease, took the phone out of Bilbo's hand. “More like a rat to me.” He tried to open the phone, but without the password or a lick of patience, soon grew frustrated and threw the phone to the floor. Bilbo squeaked again, his mind going over the fact that that had been a brand new phone and AT&T would charge him a small fortune to get a new one. It was stupid, he knew, a small part of his brain told him there were more important matter at hand, but still. Next time, he told himself, he'd spring for the insurance.

“You know what ma used to say,” Bert said, “find one rat and you'll soon find then more.” The Trolls smiled greedily. “Tell me, little rat, any more of you running around?”

“No,” he told them shortly, trying to sound authoritative.

“He's lying,” William said, his squashed face frowning with focus and frustration.

“Am not!” Bilbo's voice cracked, but he still hoped they'd believe him and not look for the others.

“Cut off his fingers. Make him squeal,” William ordered while pulling a knife out from the back of his waistband.

With a flash of brown and a cry sounding as if it'd come straight from the battle field, Kili rushed forward and slid while slashing out at William's tendons with one small knife in each hand. William fell with a wail and an echoing thump against the floor. “Drop him!” Kili ordered, standing above William's fetal positioned form.

“You what?” Tom asked, his small eyes narrowing with confusion and anger.

“I said,” Kili repeated, placing a foot on the hollow of William's throat, making the Troll gag. “Drop him.”

Sharing a glance with Bert, Tom grabbed Bilbo by the scruff of his coat collar and hurled him towards Kili. Kili, who was not prepared for the impact, was not properly braced to receive Bilbo's form as he flew towards him.  Bilbo felt Kili's chest deflate as the wind was knocked out of hum. More shouting sounds behind Bilbo's closed eyes and he opens them to the Sons of Durin charging the Trolls, arms raised with weapons in hand. Most were holding knives but a few had guns in hand as well. Bilbo knew they were only for show though.  The Sons of Durin were not stupid--at least, Bilbo amended mentally, not stupid enough to shoot a gun off in a room full of metal.  Or so he hoped.  He'd prefer not to be hit by a ricocheting bullet, thank you very much.

Taking advantage of the discord, Bilbo scrambled off of Kili and ran for the bikes. If he could just get enough outside they could ride away. The Trolls would never be able to keep up with them and why would they even try? He'd gotten three out of the unit and was heading back for the fourth bike when he once again felt someone grab at the scruff of his coat collar and pull him backwards towards the chest of a Troll. Something sharp pressed itself against his neck and Bilbo gulped. He didn't need to see it to know it was a knife pressed against him. “Bilbo!” Kili called out, the first to notice his predicament.

“No!” Thorin called out, his shoulders hunched with stress and his expression one of equal parts frustration and panic. His eyes widen when the knife is pressed harder against Bilbo's skin, causing the shallowest of cuts and drawing the slightest amount of blood to flow down the curve of his neck. Thorin's grip on his gun tightened, but it was too low and he would not have enough time to raise it and aim properly before the Troll did his damage to Bilbo.

“Drop your weapons,” Tom ordered, his breathing labored, “or I'll drop his head.” He dug the knife even deeper, reinforcing his point. The Sons of Durin looked to Thorin, unsure of what to do. Thorin's Adam-apple wavered and his gaze slid to Bilbo's. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, he kneeled down to drop both his gun and knife to the ground. The others, seeing Thorin's actions, soon followed suit and bent down to their knees as well.

After tying each man's wrists and ankles together with plastic zip ties and throwing them all together in one heap, the Troll brothers began to discuss what was to be done with them next. “Don't bother using no anesthesia,” William said, nursing his red and swollen throat with some ice while Tom bandaged his mangled ankles. He glared at Kili over his brother's head. “Let's just cut them open as is.”

Bert sighed with the patience of one thousand saints. They'd obviously had this conversation before. “If we do that we risk all the organs. Their hearts will go into shock, kidneys will fail first and we'll only get the spleen if we're lucky. No, we need to do this right. Kidneys, liver, then heart. Those are the top three. The only three that count. Just one kidney alone will get us over two hundred thousand.”

“Oh, that sounds quite nice,” William agreed, his greedy nature overcoming his temporary thirst for revenge.

“Never mind all this talk,” Tom growled, moving to grab the tanks containing the anesthesia. “We haven't got all night! Soleil ain't far away, so let's get a move on. I don't fancy going to jail.” he grabbed two men—Oin and Gloin—and began strapping the breathing masks over their faces.

“Wait! You're making a terrible mistake!” Bilbo blurted out, his tongue moving faster than his mind could think. He was on the verge of a plan, he knew it, but it was a long shot and he hoped they were at least half as stupid as Kili said and that T.V didn't lie one hundred percent of the time.

“You can't reason with them!” Dori's voice sounded somewhere behind Bilbo. “They're half-wits!”

Bofur's voice came next, sounding incredulous, “Half-wits? What does that make us?”

Rolling his body back and forth until he could roll himself up into a sitting position, Bilbo continued as if he hadn't heard the men behind him. “I—uh--I meant with the anesthesia! Yes, with the anesthesia.”

“What about it?” Bert asked, his attention clearly piqued though his narrowed eyes clearly showed his suspicion and distrust.

“Well do you know which ahh—chemical combination you're using? If you don't use the proper dose the body could react poorly and die prematurely, but it could also not be enough to put the person completely under—especially a rambunctious group like this if you know what I mean.” Multiple cries of traitor and backstabber were yelled around him and someone was even so upset with the turn of events they were able to lash out by kicking Bilbo square in the back, causing him to fall back over onto his side. As he pushed himself back into a sitting position, he made eye contact with Thorin and silently begged him to understand his plan. Thorin stared straight back, not blinking or averting his gaze. His expression was surprisingly calm, considering the circumstances, and Bilbo hoped that meant Thorin understood what he was doing.

“What do you know about surgical procedures?” Tom asked disdainfully, his flat nose wrinkling into a snarl. Still, he'd stopped his preparations and also turned his attention to Bilbo.

“Shut up,” Bert snapped, “and let the . . . uh, rat. . .talk.”

“Um, well, the secret to proper sedation is. . .um,” Bilbo stumbled and swallowed thickly, his tongue seeming to have tripled in size.

“Yes? Come on,” Bert said patiently.

“It's, uh—”

“Tell us the secret,” whatever patience he had was waning quickly.

Bilbo had to think fast. Squeezing his eyes shut and praying for a miracle, he opened his mouth and heard himself say, “Soak them in lukewarm water!”

“Tom, get the hose,” Bert ordered without hesitation. Bilbo was amazed that he believed him and that his plan was working—at least, so far—but wasn't about to question his surprising success. Of course, the peanut gallery wasn't exactly thrilled. Both Gloin and Dwalin threatened to gut him.

“What a load of bull!” Tom snapped back at Bert. “I've never soaked a single body and never had a problem. Cut 'em open, dry and all, I say!”

“He's right,” William agrees, the vengeful glint returning into his eyes as he once more laid eyes on Kili. “Nothing wrong with our method, s'far as I can tell.” Reaching over, he grabbed onto Bombur's hair and pulled him up to be sedated.

Heart sinking dead at the bottom of his chest with fear, Bilbo found himself talking again, “Not that one! He's—he's diseased!”

“You what?” Tom asked, his squinty eyes widening with understanding. He knew what a diseased body meant for the organs within.

“Yeah, he's got . . . leprosy!” Immediately William released Bombur. “Yeah—yeah, in fact, they've all got it. Parasites, too! Worms in the digestive system and ticks in the—er, heart!” Bilbo didn't know if ticks could make their way into the heart, but it didn't seem so unreasonable. At least, not in the heat of the moment. “I wouldn't risk it—selling wise—terrible business. I really wouldn't.”

“Parasites?” He heard Oin whispered voice behind him. “Did he say parasites?”

“We don't have parasites!” Kili argued, flailing his body about in attempt to fight Bilbo's words. “ _You_ have parasites!” Had it been any other situation, Bilbo would have laughed at Kili's juvenile response, but at the moment he simply continued to stare at the Trolls and hoped they ignored those around him. More and more of them begin to agree with Oin and Kili and adamantly claim that they do not, in fact, have parasites, making Bilbo roll his eyes up to the high heavens. If they didn't shut up, they'd ruin everything.

Thorin, though, thank heaven for Thorin, Bilbo thought. His clear blue eyes flared to life with perfect understanding and he roughly kicked both Kili and Oin, giving his mean silent but meaningful looks. With just a breaths worth of silence, the men's tune changed and they began speaking about all their parasites with great detail.

“I've got parasites as big as my arm!” Oin bragged, nodding his head vigorously.

Next was Kili, practically shouting over Oin, “Mine are the biggest. I've got _huge_ parasites!”

“We're riddled,” Nori remarked mildly. “Stomach, liver, you name it, we've got it.”

“Oh, yes,” Ori said almost pleasantly, “I'm riddled!”

“Yes, we are. Badly!” Dori confirmed with a solemn expression.

It was getting lighter outside, which was good, Bilbo thought. He was so close. Just a little longer. Tom's snarl brought Bilbo back to the present. “You think I don't know what you're up to?” He asked, looming closer to the group. “This little ferret is taking us for fools!”

“Ferret?” Bilbo repeated, wondering what happened to 'rat'.  
“Fools?” Bert repeated, looking at his brother with confusion.  He turned his narrowed eyed gaze towards Bilbo, his small brain trying to decide whether or not he was telling the truth and then what to do to Bilbo if he agreed with his brother.

A tall, skinny shadow appeared in the doorway. The bright sky behind him blocked his face, but his voice left no room for confusion as Gandalf shouted, “The dawn will take you all!” and pulled down on the fire alarm on the inside of the way, sounding the alarm. The Trolls all swore and, with no thought at all, ran for the exit; William limping behind them. Quickly Gandalf bustled over to the Suns of Durin and Bilbo and with a small, Swiss army knife, began to cut their plastic ties.

“Gandalf!” Bilbo exclaimed. “You're just going to let them go?” The thought horrified him. Those men were monsters who'd continue to hunt and harvest people for their organs. They couldn't be allowed to escape.

With a serene expression and a soft smile, Gandalf cut Bilbo's ties and nodded his head in the direction the Trolls ran. “Why Bilbo, you should know me better than that by now. Let them go?” He shook his head good naturedly. “I should think not.”

Curious, Bilbo stood up and peeked around the corner and smiled at the sight. Two police squad cars with lights blazing brighter than the sun and one undercover car were parked blocking the Trolls path to freedom. They were on their knees, hands placed on top of their hands as three officers aimed their guns on their bodies and a fourth began to handcuff and read their rights. “Fucking Soleil!” Tom shouted his disdain to one of the detectives standing in front of them. A satisfied smirk gracing her lips as she led them each into their own car to be driven away to jail.

“Come along now, Bilbo,” Gandalf's voice sounded behind him. “We must be on our way, before the police discover our existence.” Looking over, Bilbo saw the Sons of Durin righting their bikes and preparing for their escape. Nodding his head, and setting his shoulders, Bilbo found Bofur and settled himself into the sidecar. A small laugh escaped him at the thought that just over twenty four hours ago the scariest thing he'd ever encountered was a sidecar with no seat belt. Now, looking back on the night's events, Bilbo had a new appreciation for the word fear and he wasn't too sure how he felt about that.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, a couple things...
> 
> 1\. Yeah, the Trolls are ridiculously strong and very few people can lift a motorcycle over their shoulder in real life, but whatever, it's fiction. And I feel like it wasn't something expected/normal in the fic either (Bilbo obviously didn't think so).
> 
> 2\. Bilbo's plan wasn't fully explained at the end of this chapter (it was cut short by Gandalf, actually) and that will be explained at the beginning of next chapter.
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos as they are always appreciated! Next chapter will be coming . . . soon . . .


	7. Weapons and Gasoline

“Where'd you go?” Thorin growled low and deep to Gandalf. His voice making Bilbo's insides quiver with strange delight. Thorin's jaw was tense and his upper teeth ground against the lower when he realized Gandalf wouldn't answer him. Blowing air out his nose, he instead asked, “Why'd you come back?”

“Nasty business,” Gandalf responded vaguely, looking forward and resolutely not at Thorin. “Good timing, too. All in one piece, after all.” He nodded backwards to the gang.

“No thanks to your burglar,” Thorin sneered, glancing over his shoulder to look at Bilbo riding two motorcycles behind. He tried to keep his voice down, but trying to speak over the roar of a motor and discreetly was a difficult feat. Bilbo could still hear everything plain as day. His heart sunk a bit at Thorin's words. He pursued his lips, thinking back to how scared he'd been and how hard he'd tried to stall for as long as he could. He'd used every ounce of cleverness he had. And it had worked, too, dammit!

“He had the nous to play for time. None of you thought to do that.” Gandalf defended him, making Bilbo sit up straighter in his side car, puffing out his chest with a new found sense of confidence and vindication . Thorin eyed Gandalf incredulously—or, well, as incredulously as one could while driving a bike—and Gandalf stared right back. “What? You thought it was a coincidence that the police showed up? Good heavens, Thorin, no. Soleil had been after the Troll's for months. Her undercover car had been parked in the parking lot for several hours. I noticed it when we passed on our way to the motel and I'd bet anything Bilbo noticed it as well. Yes, if I hadn't shown up when I did the police would have just moments later. You all would have been safe. Possibly arrested, but safe. _All thanks_ to, as you put it, _my_ burglar.”

After their conversation ended, the Sons of Durin, plus Bilbo and Gandalf, only managed to drive around the corner of the parking lot before half of their bikes turned off, the exhausts sputtering noises of distress. “Did none of you ninnies think to check the tanks for fuel?” Gandalf grumbled.

“They were full when we arrived at the motel!” Nori shouted from the back of the caravan. Thorin and Balin looked back to shush him and send the evil eye his way. They weren't too far off from the authorities, after all. No need to attract unwanted attention. “Well, they were!” He nodded his head and scowled right back.

“Well, they're obviously not now,” Dwalin said while rolling his eyes. “And unless one of us can piss gasoline—”

“Enough!” Gandalf hissed, obviously trying not to shout himself, “We need to find shelter, and fast!” He looked around, thinking. “The Trolls wouldn't have wanted to venture far from the warehouse.”

Thorin's eyes glinted with understanding and he nodded. “There must be another base nearby.” As quietly as they could, they rolled their bikes further away from the police, following Thorin and Gandalf's lead. Bilbo kept his eyes peeled, hoping to help in some way. Hoping to prove him usefulness to Thorin. A small voice in the back of his head told him that it was futile, but he ignored it. He looked left and right, searching desperately for something—anything—that would lead them to safety. They'd almost waked down the strip of empty storefronts when Bilbo heard it. The steady hum of electricity.

“Hold on a minute,” he whispered to Bofur who looked confused, but obeyed anyway and motioned for the others to do as well. Peering into what looked like an old bar—possibly named The Cave or The Cove, Bilbo couldn't quite tell from the left over sign—it looked like it had been abandoned for a long time now. Raggedy old tarps were scattered across the floor, the glass door covered in dirt, grease, and smudges, but in the very back Bilbo could see the faintest of lights trickling through the small gap between the floor and door that led to who knows where. “Here!” He hissed. “This is it!”

Thorin looked suspicious, but Gandalf wasted no time walking up to the door and giving it a good pull. When the lock held, everyone looked to Nori, who still looked very much put out over the gas issue. After a few moments of tense silence, he groaned and walked over to the door while pulling out a small tool from a pocket in his leather jacket. After a little tinkering, the locked snapped open and the Sons of Durin hurried in, motorcycles and all. “Oh what's that smell?” Nori asked, his nose curling with disdain.

“It's the Troll's home.” Gandalf said, as if that answered anything. “Be careful what you touch,” he added. Bilbo looked around the room. What he had mistaken for tarps were actually blankets and pillows. In the back, behind what was left of the bar, were paper plates, cardboard boxes, and empty beer cans, all crawling with insects trying to pick off any leftovers. Gandalf was right, Bilbo thought depressingly, this was the residence of the Troll brothers.

Bilbo walked towards the back door, the one with the light shining behind it, with cautious steps. The door, already slightly ajar, opened easily, flooding the rest of the bar with light. “What?” He whispered to himself, looking down at the hoard in front of him.

“Whoa!” Kili's loud voice resonated in his right ear.

“Uncle!” Fili's calmer voice soon followed in his left, “Look at what Mr. Boggin's has found!”

“Mr. _Bog_ —” Bilbo began to cry out with irritation, but was quickly cut off as the boys shouldered past him and began filtering through the items scattered about.

“What the—?” Dwalin cried out.

“Weapons,” Thorin blinked as he looked at the alarming amount of weapons lying on the floor in front of him. He slowly stepped into the room to inspect them, the rest of the Sons of Durin soon following suit. Bilbo blinked, watching the gang as they riffled through the vast weapons like children with their presents on Christmas morning. Thorin picked up two brass knuckles that shimmered a peculiar silver color. Words were etched into the metal, and Bilbo, though he didn't have the best view, thought they were written in something other than English. Thorin looked over to Gandalf standing watch by the store's entrance and offered one of the brass knuckles to the other man. “These weapons weren't made by Ettenmoore Company.” He said curiously, nodding his head for Gandalf to take a look. Bilbo watched with furrowed brows, wondering what it mattered.

Walking closer, Gandalf took the brass knuckle handed to him and inspected it closely. Bilbo could now say for certain that the writing was not English and wondered if Gandalf understood it. “No,” he agreed, “Nor were they made by Edain Manufacturing, either.” He flipped the small blade over and hummed to himself. “These were made by Gondolin. The Lindon's company.” Thorin sneered and drew his arm back to throw the brass knuckle still in his possession away when Gandalf's serious tone stayed his hand. “You could not wish for a finer weapon.” He offered back the other brass knuckle.

Thorin stared at him, judging the truth of his words, before taking back the weapon and pacing both on his hands. He seemed pleased with the way they fit, or so Bilbo thought, seeing as how his lips curled up into an almost smile and his eyes practically began to glow. Blinking slowly, Thorin collected himself and called out to his gang, “That's enough! The cops will have left by now. Take what you will and let's get out of this foul place. Let's go—Bofur, Gloin, Nori!” He specifically called those three out when he saw them lagging behind as they tried to grab every weapon they could.

“We leaving the bikes?” Gloin asked, concerned when he saw Thorin pass by them for the front door without hesitation.

“Well unless one of you actually can piss gasoline,” Thorin began dryly, looking over his shoulder to his men. When no one said anything, he continued, “No? Thought not. We'll have to go on foot for a while. Until we can buy some at a gas station or Walmart.” He continued his walk out and the others began to follow. Some men gave their motorcycles a last, longing look, before leaving.

Bilbo stepped forward to follow as well, but stopped when a warm hand on his shoulder. Looking up he saw Gandalf giving him a strange look. It reminded Bilbo of a look his father used to give him whenever Bilbo had done something relatively foolish. “Bilbo,” Gandalf said quietly, seriously.

“Hmm?” Bilbo tilted his head to the side, wondering what this was all about. Knowing Gandalf, it could have been anything.

“Here,” he said abruptly, almost awkwardly, as he pushed a small, covered blade into Bilbo's arms. “It's about your size, I think. It's a good blade, and will protect you in times of trouble.”

Bilbo looked down at the dagger like it was some alien creature. “But—but I've never used a weapon in my life!”

“And I hope you never have to,” Gandalf told him, and he looked so sincere that Bilbo believed him, “But just in case. Remember this, Bilbo,” he leaned forward, looking straight into Bilbo's eyes, “True courage is about knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one.” And with that, Gandalf straightened himself and walked away to catch up with the Sons of Durin. Bilbo watched him for a moment as he went. His nose scrunched up with confusion. Sparing a life? Bilbo mulled the words over in his head. Gandalf sometimes talked as if he knew the future, something that was starting to give Bilbo the willies—especially since he seemed to be right most of the time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! Hopefully I'll be able to post much more regularly now. Also, yes this is a short chapter but t's kind of a transition one because the next chapter, I believe, will be including the ORCs! (oh no!) So fun times ahead. 
> 
> Please comment/leave a kudos. Comments always make me smile and help motivate me.


	8. Walking All Day is Dreadful Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In here, you fools!” Gandalf's voice sounded from inside a closet door. Gandalf opened the door and leaned out. “A way out,” was all he said before turning around and disappearing down a long winded hallway.
> 
> “That wasn't there a moment ago!” Gloin said, astounded. “I checked this closet myself. It was—it was just a closet!”
> 
> “I can't see where it leads,” Dwalin said, sharing a glance with Thorin. “Do we follow it, or no?”
> 
> “Follow it, of course!” Bofur said, already following Gandalf down the dark hallway.
> 
> “It would be wise,” Gandalf's loud, booming voice called out behind him.

Traveling to the city via motorcycle was doable. Uncomfortable and terribly unsafe, but doable. Unfortunately, due the ever consistent bad luck of the company, driving by bike was no longer an option. Oh, finding a Wal-Mart and buying a few gallons of gas had been easy enough. It was only a two mile walk, and Bilbo was very much used to walking such distances back in the Shire. When they returned to the Troll's hideout, however, they were too late. The police had discovered the store containing human body parts, vasts amounts of weapons, and their bikes. So not only had they done all that walking for nothing, but they'd have to abandon their plastic tubs of gas and continue walking until Thorin could figure out their next move.

They took a series of buses to help shorten the distance between themselves and the city, but none of the routes seemed to go in the exact direction they needed and buses were expensive without a transfer pass or anything of the like. Cabs were out of the question, of course. They were too expensive and would charge a fortune just to meet them out. . . well, wherever they were. And of course, no one had an Uber account.

The sun was beginning its descent when Thorin pulled out his phone for the umpteenth time to look at the map. Bilbo stared up at the clouds and figured they had another two, maybe three, hours of light left. They'd need to find shelter soon. “We're too far West,” Bilbo heard Gandalf mutter as he himself gazed at the sky.

Bilbo snorted, but didn't comment. Instead he took in his surroundings. They were currently stuck in a decrepit suburb where most buildings were boarded up and cars were abandoned on the side of the road. There was a car over to the left of him—in too obvious a state of disrepair to be of any true help to them—with peeling gold paint and a smashed in windshield. Normally, the four door sedan wouldn't have held his attention for more than a moment, but the movement of a shadow behind the car caught, and held, his attention. “Gandalf,” he called. Look over there,” he pointed at the car.

Gandalf's eyes, so old and yet so perceptive, shifted to the car and narrowed. He hummed and then turned to Thorin, asking in a rush, “Who did you tell about your trip? Outside your family?”

“No one,” Thorin said, trying to shrug off Gandalf from his side. He didn't look up from his phone and looked terribly annoyed at having been bothered.

“Who did you tell?” Gandalf grabbed on to Thorin's shoulder and shook him. His tone a mixture of impatience and anxiety.

“No one, I swear. What's going on?”

“Someone's watching us?”

“What?” Dwalin asked, his face scrunched with incredulity. “Who?”

“A Warg,” Gandalf said ominously. Bilbo looked back to the car and saw a head quickly drop behind the trunk and out of sight.

“We need to leave,” Dwalin said. “Now.”

“Follow me!” Gandalf yelled, gaining the attention of the entire company before running down a street, towards the center of the town. Bilbo ran as fast as his short legs could and still struggled to keep up. In the distance behind them, Bilbo heard a sharp, shrill whistle blowing. Then, more and more joined in and Bilbo realized acutely just how much danger they really were. “Come on,” Gandalf yelled as he looked to his left and right, keeping an eye out for something. What, Bilbo didn't know. “Stay together!”

The sounds of encroaching footsteps grew louder and louder in his ears, so Bilbo, curious as ever, looked over his shoulder to see what was chasing them. It was hard to tell considering he was running, but it looked like they were being chased by a small group of teenaged thugs. They wore brown leather jackets that looked worn and misused, jeans with holes upon holes in them, and their hair—if Bilbo could make out properly—was matted to their skulls. They looked atrocious, and Bilbo made sure to run a bit faster in an attempt to put more distance between himself and the group. They were fast, though, and soon began to gain on them.

“In here!” Gandalf called out, herding them into a nondescript building—a bar perhaps, once upon a time—via a broken window. Bilbo was one of the first in, being quickly hoisted through the hole by Bofur. Then Ori, then Nori, then Bofur, then the next, and the next . . .

“Where are you leading us?” Thorin growled from outside the building, being stubborn as always.

“Never mind that,” Gandalf growled back, tension thickening his throat. “Get in!” After that Kili soon hopped through the open window, followed closely by Thorin, and finally Gandalf.

“We're trapped!” Gloin moaned, running his hands down his face. Some of the others, Balin, Dori, Bombur, were farther back, looking for an exit.

“The Durin scum are over here!” They heard a Warg cry out, their voices so very close to their shelter. The Sons of Durin began to ready themselves, drawing out their weapons and squaring up towards the window. Bilbo pulled out his small knife and clutched it tightly in his hand, waiting for the strange looking men to flood into the room. Instead, the most peculiar thing happened. A siren began to wail in the distance. It was the most heavenly sound Bilbo had ever heard in his entire life. The siren grew louder and louder until a patrol car rounded the corner and crawled past their hiding spot. The walls surrounding them glowed blue and red as the car drove by. The patrol car continued on, the siren's wail growing quieter again, and soon all was silent.

After several more moments—which felt like several lifetimes to Bilbo—of this, Thorin peered out of the window to investigate. “They're gone,” he announced. Several breaths were released. “Gandalf, what—Gandalf?” Thorin looked around, but could not find the old man.

“Where is he?” Kili asked, his eyes wide with confusion.

“He's abandoned us!” Dwalin shouted angrily, practically stomping his foot.

“In here, you fools!” Gandalf's voice sounded from inside a closet door. Gandalf opened the door and leaned out. “A way out,” was all he said before turning around and disappearing down a long winded hallway.

“That wasn't there a moment ago!” Gloin said, astounded. “I checked this closet myself. It was—it was just a closet!”

“I can't see where it leads,” Dwalin said, sharing a glance with Thorin. “Do we follow it, or no?”

“Follow it, of course!” Bofur said, already following Gandalf down the dark hallway.

“It would be wise,” Gandalf's loud, booming voice called out behind him.

Slowly, one by one, they followed Gandalf and Bofur, not sure where they'd end up but feeling optimistic than it'd be better than their current location. “What is this?” Fili wondered aloud, waiting for someone who knew the answer to reply.

“This building was built in 1923, Fili,” Gandalf explained. “During the prohibition. Secret tunnels such as this one were common back then to keep the location of the illegal speakeasy hidden from the authorities. They can be difficult to find,” he paused and looked over his shoulder to smile at Fili, “unless you know where to look.”

“Ah, I'm sorry,” Bilbo pipped up after a few minutes of silence. He kept looking over his shoulder as paranoia nipped at his heels. “But, ah, what were they? Those men back there?”

“Wargs,” Dwalin spat on the ground.

“That's what they call themselves,” Bofur explained more cheerfully.

“They're bounty hunters,” Fili said.

“Trackers,” Kili elaborated.

“For the ORCs,” they finished together.

“Their job is to track down anyone that owes money to the ORCs,” Bofur continued, easily ignoring Fili and Kili.

“Then why—?” he stopped, his face turning hot with embarrassment. It was rude to ask, so he decided not to. Then, suddenly, he remembered the story Balin told him about the ORC Azog and Thorin's grandfather, and his face burned even hotter.

“Then why were they following us? Eh, Burglar?” Thorin's cold, hard voice called out, finishing the question Bilbo had almost asked. “Was that what you were going to ask?”

Gulping, Bilbo was preparing himself to deny it. Deny that that was his original intention and try to change the topic before he could really shove his foot in his mouth. Thankfully, they'd reached the end of the tunnel and the sight before them was all the distraction Bilbo needed. “What the bloody—? Dwalin cursed.

“This was your plan all along, wasn't it?” Thorin asked, his brows furrowing into a solid line and his face flushing with anger. Thankfully this time his ire was aimed at Gandalf. “Leading us into the heart of our enemy?”

“Oh, don't be so dramatic, Thorin,” Gandalf smiled down at him easily, then turned to look out at the mass of happy, easy going, drunk people in front of him. “Everyone, welcome to Imraldis. One of the last prohibition era buildings of Rivendell County.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's kinda short, but I'm just so happy to have finally made my way around to updating this fic!
> 
> Please comment/kudos/whatever!


	9. The Last Homely House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and the Sons of Durin have escaped the Wargs only to find themselves in the viper's nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of Easter, GOME rises from the dead!

 The Sons of Durin clumped together protectively with Thorin, Dwalin, and Nori standing at the exterior and Fili, Kili, and Bilbo at the center. The sound of coins clinking to the bottom of slot machines came from all around the and flashing red, yellow, and white lights blinded Bilbo, making him startle and blink, while luring unsuspecting patrons into its trap. Rowdy cheers came from Bilbo's right and out of the corner of his eye, he could see a man gleefully collecting an armful of round, colorful chips. They were in a casino. One with a prohibition theme, apparently. The dealers and wait staff were dressed to the nines—fancy flapper dresses and smart boulder hats. Bilbo had never been here before—he'd never gambled a day in his life, thank you very much—but he'd heard of places like this through the Took grapevine. “Imraldis,” he whispered, repeating what Gandalf had just stated. “We're in Imraldis.”

“Stay sharp,” Thorin ordered. His jaw was tense and jutted out just so. Bilbo could practically hear his teeth grinding and gnashing against each other. His brow was furrowed, fists clenched, shoulders back and stiff. He looked like a man about to do battle.

“You have no enemies here,” Gandalf's tone was soft, gentle. But there was a waning glint in his eyes. A harshness that only shone through when Gandalf worried Thorin was about to act recklessly. A sneer stretched over Thorin's nose and lips. Gandalf's warning didn't seem too ridiculous to Bilbo. Then again, as tall, slender men and women in matching suits and earpieces slowly surrounded them—appearing seemingly from nowhere—Bilbo had to admit that perhaps Thorin's warning was just as founded.

“You think we're safe here, do you?” Thorin challenged, not taking his eyes off the security guards in front of him. “They'll try and stop us.” Bilbo bit at his bottom lip.  Thorin had a point. When the Durins were in their golden age, they were competition for casinos and bars of Rivendell County. With the Durins gone, the Lindon family had a monopoly on the market. It didn't make sense for them to help their competition rise from the grave.

“Of course they will,” Gandalf scoffed. Bilbo's head jerked sharply, surprised to hear Gandalf and Thorin agreeing on something. “But they will not turn you over to the authorities,” technically, Bilbo mused, Gandalf  _was_  the authorities, “or the ORCs, and we need more information— _current_ information if we are to be successful in reclaiming Erebor. To gain that information, however, we'll need to be smart. We have to use all our charm and treat the Lindons with tact and respect.” He side eyed Thorin and huffed. Bilbo wasn't sure if the sound was an aborted laugh or an exasperated snort. “Which is why you'll leave the talking to me.”

A tall and lithe man with short, dark hair stepped through the blockade of security guards. He was smartly dressed in a three piece suit. His tie was silk, Bilbo noticed, and was a lovely shade of burgundy that worked well with his pale complexion. This was Elrond Lindon, Bilbo realized dully. Head of the Lindon family, notorious mafioso, and the real person in charge of Rivendell. He didn't look like a hardened criminal. He looked like an affluent, well to do parent of a misbehaving private school student. At least, that's how he was staring down at Thorin. Like the leader of the Sons of Durin was just a tantrum throwing child.

They were the same height, Bilbo noticed with a start, and yet somehow Elrond was still looking down his nose at the other man. Then, his gaze shifted to Gandalf and his lips widened to a genuine smile, “Gandalf,” he greeted, opening his arms so they could embrace.

“Elrond,” Gandalf barked a laugh and clapped the other man good naturedly on the back.

“My sources informed me you were in Rivendell,” Elrond started, then looked at the rag-tag group of criminals before him. “As well as Wargs—it's unusual for the ORCs or their underlings to cross into our territory. Something, or  _someone_ ,” his eyes locked in on Thorin's icy blue ones, and Bilbo felt a silent challenge ripple through the room. “Has drawn them here. Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain.” The words were old, the sentence out dated, but the words hit their mark all the same.  Bilbo thought he heard a low growl rumbling deep in Thorin's chest, but couldn't be sure.

Thorin inclined his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment, “Elrond. It's been a while.”

Elrond hummed in agreement, “It has indeed. Not since before the death of your grandfather, I believe.” Eyes flickering back to Gandalf, Elrond ordered the guards, “Make preparations for our guests to spend the night, and get them anything they'll need. Food, drink, whatever you need to make your stay comfortable, you're welcome to it.” Without another word, the mafioso turned heel and glided back through his casino and his guards slowly returned to their posts.

“I know he just offered us food,” Gloin said slowly, stroking his red beard thoughtfully. “So why do I feel like we've just been threatened?”

Gandalf laughed dryly, a twinkle shining in his eyes, “Worry not, Gloin. Rest assured in knowing that poison is not Elrond's M.O.”

“Well in that case,” he patted his large belly, “I could go for a burger or two. Or three. Lead the way!”

Hours later, after Bilbo and the others had been escorted to rooms in the hotel above the casino and ordered room service—and after a tofu burger mix up that had both Ori and Dwalin retching in the bathroom for several minutes—Elrond visited them and lead them all down to his office to talk business. Elrond's office was dark and terribly impressive. A large area rug took up the center of the room, but around the edges, Bilbo could see the floor beneath was made of solid oak. Elrond's desk was in the far left corner of the room, and the mafioso took a seat behind it, his back safely facing the wall. A fireplace with a great stone mantle stood unlit against the right side of the wall and above it was a framed family portrait of Elrond, his wife, and his three children. They looked normal. The phrase ' _don't judge a book by its cover_ ' came to mind, and Bilbo thought it fit this man to a 'T'. LED lights illuminated the dark office, casting the room in a white, almost heavenly light. It also made everyone seem deathly pale. Bilbo swallowed thickly and repressed a shiver. He didn't know what, exactly, was about to happen. From the guarded expression on the faces of those around him, Bilbo figured it wouldn't be good.

“So tell me,” Elrond started without preamble. “What are the Sons of Durin doing in Rivendell?” He looked at Gandalf for an answer, as did Bilbo. He did say he'd do all the talking, after all, but before the older man could open his mouth, Thorin spoke.

“It's not your concern,” he growled out, taking an aggressive step forward. His upper lip was curled back, barring his teeth at the man before him. His fists were clenched and now, with his leather jacket left behind in his room, Bilbo could see the muscles of Thorin's arm bulging beneath his skin. Mouth turning drier than a desert, Bilbo had to tear his eyes away from the gang leader, lest his cheeks caught fire.

“A rival gang invades my territory, followed by Wargs and ORCs, carrying Lindon made weapons, and it's none of my concern?” A tense silence filled the room and wary glances were exchanged. Bilbo's hand unconsciously twitched to his pocket where the small blade Gandalf had given him rested. “Did you really think I wouldn't notice my own company's work?” Elrond scoffed and jerked his chin at Thorin. “I recognized the Orcrist knuckles immediately. They were custom made—one of a kind. Where'd you get them?”

“We didn't steal them!” Bofur sputtered indignantly. Bilbo glanced at Nori, but the red headed thief merely rolled his eyes.

“Not properly,” Nori muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. Bilbo wasn't sure what that meant, but for some reason it seemed the right thing to say. Several of the Durins who had heard him nodded their head in agreement and began grumbling amongst each other.

“Trolls,” Bilbo blurted out, and suddenly all eyes were on him. He didn't know what possessed him to speak, but now that he'd started, he figured he might as well finish. Locking eyes with Elrond, keeping them off Thorin and his ridiculous muscles, Bilbo cleared his throat and clarified, “The Troll brothers. We took the weapons from their stash after they were arrested.”

Elrond frowned at Bilbo, his gaze analytical and sharp as he took in the smaller man's appearance. Short, curly blond hair. Dirty, round cheeks. A rumpled button down shirt and stained khakis. He looked like a snake, deciding how to best devour its prey. Bilbo gulped.

“Oh, for goodness sake's, Thorin,” Gandalf interrupted, drawing Elrond's all too seeing eyes away from Bilbo. “Show him the blue print.” Thorin's lips thinned and he looked at Gandalf as if he'd grown a second head. Sighing and looking up at the ceiling, Gandalf grumbled, “Save me from the stubbornness of Oakenshields.” Lowering his gaze and returning Thorin's gaze with steely eyes, he ordered, “Set aside your pride this once. This,” he gestured to Elrond, “is one of the few people in Middle Earth who can give us the information we need!”

The two men remained deadlocked for some time, their glares unwavering, but Bilbo could see the gears shifting behind Thorin's eyes. He could see Thorin's imagination running away with him, conjuring every possibility, every outcome his next action could cause. Huffing sharply, Thorin nodded to Dwalin, who stepped forward and pulled the folded up blue print from inside his leather jacket and laid it out before Elrond on his desk.

Elrond stared down at the paper and quirked a brow. “The Lonely Mountain,” he read off the top, his eyes flickering up to catch Gandalf's before returning to his desk. “What do you need to know?”

“Has Smaug done any redecorating?” Gandalf asked instead, turning to inspect the fire place mantle. “Any reconstruction on the original foundation?”

“Not that I've heard.”

Gandalf nodded, rubbing his thumb along the mantle's edge. “And the buildings around it? Has he bought those yet?” Bilbo held back a snort. From the tales he'd heard from Fili and Kili, Smaug didn't  _buy_  anything. Not if he could avoid it.

“No, I believe he's waiting for the banks to foreclose on the properties first.”

“Making sure the cost is well below the retail price,” Gandalf nodded, as if it made perfect sense. “Your family built those buildings, didn't they?” He turned to face Elrond, who'd been watching him with narrowed eyes. “You wouldn't have  _those_  blue prints, would you?”

You could hear a pin drop, it was so quiet. Bilbo bit down on his lower lip to keep from making a sound. He didn't think Gandalf was being very subtle, and seeing the brow that quirked up Elrond's forehead, Bilbo suspected the man would agree. “I do,” the mafioso said slowly. “Why so much talk about blue prints and construction, Gandalf?”

“Mainly academic,” Gandalf answered easily, a wry smile twisting his lips. “Architecture has become my new hobby. Retirement is just around the corner, you know.” Elrond hummed, and Bilbo thought a blind man could see plainly that he didn't believe him. “Any chance I could take a look at them?” Gandalf asked, his eyes closing and smile widening. He looked like a harmless old man. Bilbo scowled. It was  _that_  assumption that had gotten him into this mess.

There was a pause, and then Elrond's face had shuttered close, his face looking perfectly serene, and Bilbo thought he'd turn down Gandalf's request point blank. “Of course.” He nodded and Bilbo blinked twice, not believing his ears. “They're in the archives,” Elrond explained, standing up and walking around his desk. He headed for the door, “I'll have someone fetch them. They'll be ready for you by the morning. In the mean time, though, you can take this time to rest. Feel free to go anywhere in the hotel,” he told them as he opened the door and granted them leave. “There are plenty of restaurants and bars in case you're still hungry, and for entertainment you can always visit the casino. Please,” he said with an easy smile as the last Durin filtered out of his office, “enjoy yourselves. Tonight you are my honored guests.” Bilbo thought he saw a flash of suspicion on Gandalf's face, but when the older man turned to Thorin, he looked down right smug. Bilbo figured it must've been the lighting tricking his eyes.

Elrond said his goodbyes and disappeared back into his office, closing the door behind him. Bilbo found himself staring, open mouthed, at the closed door. He was dumbstruck. It worked. They were going to see the blue prints. They'd find a way into the Lonely Mountain. And they were going to get a safe night's rest in a five star hotel. The rest of the gang voiced his thoughts with mutterings of optimism and hope. Bilbo couldn't believe it. After their first few mishaps, their luck was finally taking a turn for the better.

“Well that was easy,” Kili commented, his smile wide and gleeful. Bilbo was inclined to agree, but then caught sight of the dark look on Thorin's face. Catching the gang leader's icy blue gaze, Bilbo understood immediately. They might be safe—for now—but they weren't out of the woods yet.   

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I know it's been a while, but I'm back and kicking with this fic. Please let me know what you thought by leaving a comment/kudos. You can find me on tumblr under scribomaniac and I am currently taking prompts!!


	10. Council of the Guardians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, Master Burglar,” Thorin whispered, his blue eyes keeping a lookout for any wandering staff. “Since Elrond has decided to act with dishonesty,” he grinned, all teeth and danger, “then so shall we.”

Bilbo hummed to himself as he looked out the window, his arms crossed over his chest.  The sun had set hours ago, not too long after they’d arrived in the hotel, and Bilbo looked out at the sight before him.  He’d only left the Shire a handful of times as a child, back when his mother was still alive and full of adventure.  Back when he was even smaller than he was now, they’d take a day trip into the city to see the sights and taste the food and get lost in the vastness of it all.  They’d always made it home before darkfall, though.   _ A bit of a shame _ , Bilbo thought as he took in the beautiful lights twinkling from hundreds of buildings against the dark landscape, _ mother would’ve loved the sight.   _

The sound of something crashing to the floor behind him brought Bilbo out of his reverie and he turned around to see what was amiss.  Raising a brow, he saw the many pieces of an orange, decorative bowl scattered about.  “Don’t be difficult, Ori!” Dori chastised his younger brother, his face turning red as he bent over to clean up the mess.

“I don’t like green food!”  Ori retaliated, pouting like some toddler, but bending down to help his brother with the mess he made.  “Besides, why do I have to eat it when no one else has to?”

“Try it,” Dori sighed, his tone almost overflowing with smothered frustration.  “Just a mouthful.”

Dwalin, a few feet away from them with his head buried in the hotel room’s fridge, interrupted the squabbling brothers, “Where’s the meat?”  He’d been foraging for food ever since they’d been brought to the room. Bilbo rolled his eyes, they’d just eaten two hours ago, for pity’s sake!

“Have they got any chips?”  Ori asked, his head popping up with interest.

A knock on the door silenced the room, and even made Dwalin close the refrigerator door. Thorin, who’d been sitting on the couch with Balin and looking at his phone with a furrow in his brow, stood up and squared his shoulders.  Bilbo thought he looked like a man about to go to war.  Overall, it wasn’t an unattractive sight.  Heat erupted across his cheeks at the thought, and Bilbo forced himself to look away.

“Come in, come in!” Gandalf called from the bathroom, steam escaping from the slightly ajar door.  He’d been in there for almost an hour now, which was utterly ridiculous.   _ Bilbo _ didn’t even take that long to groom himself.  

The electronic lock on the door clicked and slowly the door opened to reveal Elrond Lindon’s somber face.  “Ah, Elrond!”  Gandalf said, his head peeking out from the bathroom. Bilbo, who had a clear line of sight from where he stood, had to quickly close his eyes, lest he be scarred with the image of Gandalf’s nakedness forever.

The bathroom door closed momentarily, then opened wide as Gandalf--wearing a long, gray robe, thank heaven--came out to properly greet his friend.  “What brings you here at this hour?”

After nodding to everyone in the room, Elrond took no time cutting to the chase.  “The blueprints,” he said, extending a long, plastic tube towards Gandalf.  “They just arrived.  I know it’s late, but I thought you’d appreciate having them now, rather than waiting for the morning.”

Thorin stalked forward, his blue gaze honed in on the prints.  Gandalf took the storage tube from the dark haired man and easily took the top off and slid the blueprints, curled up like some large straw, into Thorin's awaiting hands. The gang leader walked over to the suite’s dinner table and laid the paper out flat with his hands.  

The Company gathered around the table, waiting with baited breath for Thorin to determine whether or not their mission could continue.  “Well?”  Balin asked, his voice barely a wheezy whisper.  “Is it there?  Is it?”  

Elrond, standing next to Gandalf still, watched this all with keen, narrow eyes, his arms crossed over his chest.  Bilbo’s eyes kept flitting back and forth between him and Thorin, his attention torn between the excitement surrounding the blueprints and the danger that was the mafioso.

Blue eyes snapping up to gaze at his men, Thorin’s lips pulled back into a wicked smile.  Gulping, Bilbo forgot all about the looming Elrond as all his attention hyper fixated on the gang leader’s lips.  His heart stuttered in his chest, and a fiery heat flashed through his body.   _ Oh no _ , he thought, cursing his traitorous heart.  Discreetly, he tried to shake his head and rid himself of the dangerous thoughts cluttering up his mind.

“So this was your purpose,” Elrond muttered, his voice so quiet.  Yet everyone in the room quieted to listen.  Thorin’s shoulders stiffened as he turned to face the taller man.  “You wish to enter The Mountain.”

Thorin’s lip pulled back in a sneer as he asked, “What of it?”  His tone was cool, casual and, surprisingly, without a hint of animosity.  Bilbo’s eyes flicked down to Thorin’s hands, which told him more than the gang leader’s tone did.  They were balled into tight fists, his knuckles white as the he tried to control his temper.  Bilbo gulped and hoped no one could hear it.

Elrond cocked his head to the side, his eyes turning analytical as he surveyed Thorin.  After a moment of thought, the mafioso took in a deep breath, and, very slowly, said, “There are some who would not deem it . . . wise.”

Rolling his eyes, Thorin turned away and began folding up the blueprints.  Gandalf, unlike Thorin, took Elrond’s words with a bit more salt and asked, “What do you mean?”

Elrond looked at Gandalf, who’s large, brown eyes peered down at him with worry obvious in his gaze, then at Thorin, who’d turned his back on him.  Lips thinning, he looked back to Gandalf, “Gandalf, would you care to join me in my suite for some dinner?  I have yet to eat and would love your company.”

Frowning, Gandalf looked down at his robe, “That’s kind of you, my friend, but I’m not really dressed for dinner.”

Lips twitching into an almost smile, Elrond chuckled, “Well, you never are.”

Bilbo watched as the two taller men exited the hotel suite with wide eyes.  Worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, he waited for the door to close, then looked to the rest of the Company.  Thorin waited for the other men to leave as well, before pulling out the blue prints again.  The air crackled with excitement as the Sons of Durin gathered close to see where, exactly, on the paper their salvation lied.  

Brows furrowing, Bilbo waited for Thorin to bark some orders, tell Fili and Kili, maybe, to follow Gandalf and Elrond.  Or sneak a conpirital gaze with Nori.   _ Something _ .  But nothing happened.  The Sons of Durin just continued to look upon the blue sheet of paper before like it held all the answers.

_ This is bad, _ Bilbo thought.   _ Very, very bad. _  Irregardless of how Thorin felt about Elrond, the man definitely had more to say.  And Bilbo would bet his entire house that it was important.   “Um, excuse me,” Bilbo shuffled closer to Thorin, trying to grab his attention.  “Pardon me,” Bilbo huffed as Gloin almost stepped on his foot and Fili pushed against his back, trying to get himself a better look.

Frowning, it was obvious to the small man that everyone’s attention was centered on Thorin and the possibility that their plan would succeed, and that he would not be able to draw them away from that victory, no matter how hard he tried. Sighing, Bilbo shook his head and weaseled his way out of the throng of gang members.  He’d try again, later, once the excitement died down.

It took a while, nearly an hour, for the Sons of Durin to start meandering away from the table and return to their previous activities.  Even longer still for Bilbo to get Thorin on his own.  The gang leader had loitered over the blueprints longer than anyone else had, and when he did finally move away from it, he headed straight towards his bedroom, bidding a grumbled goodnight to his men.  

Quiet as a wraith, Bilbo followed Thorin into the bedroom, his brow set and his eyes blazing with determination.  “Thorin Oakenshield,” he hissed once the door shut behind him.  Thorin turned to look at the little burglar and blinked once, twice, then frowned in confusion.

“Yes, Mr. Boggins?” He smirked, using his nephews incorrect name for him.  Bilbo felt an embarrassed flush crawl over his cheeks, but he wouldn’t let himself be deterred by Thorin’s rudeness.

Casting an accusing finger at the taller man, Bilbo took a step closer, “Don’t you ‘ _ Mr. Boggins’ _ me, you great oaf!” Thorin cocked an amused brow, but didn’t interrupt, “There’s something very important happening here tonight, and you’re missing out on it because of your--your prejudice!”  He’d wanted to say pigheadedness, but stopped himself last second.  He didn’t think Thorin would take too kindly to being called that.

Brows furrowing, Thorin’s lip pulled back into a slight sneer as he took a threatening step closer to Bilbo, “How do you mean?”  He took another step, and their chests were almost touching.  Bilbo could feel the heat radiating off the taller man, and suddenly his mouth turned dry.  “What do you know?”  Thorin asked, peering down his straight nose at him.

Swallowing thickly, Bilbo stared back up at him, “Elrond, Gandalf,” he said, his brain feeling a bit muddled.  Giving it a small shake, “Elrond, he--he knows something.  Has more information.  I know it.”  Thorin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “I’m  _ sure _ of it,” he persisted.  “It’s why he invited Gandalf to dinner, to--to tell him something.”

“And why would he not tell me?”  Thorin asked, raising a brow at Bilbo.  “Tell the Company?”

Bristling with annoyance, Bilbo snapped, “Maybe because you brushed him off not two hours ago?”  Then, after a quick, deep breath, added, “Or maybe because he doesn’t want us getting into The Mountain?  He didn’t seem too happy about it.”   _ Something you’d have noticed _ , he thought,  _ if you took your head out of your ass for a single minute _ .

Thorin pursed his lips, mulling over Bilbo’s words.  After just a few moments, the gang leader nodded, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.  “Very well, Master Burglar, if you believe something is happening underfoot, then we shall have to investigate.”

“We?”  Bilbo blinked uncomprehendingly.  “As in, you and me?”

Huffing out a laugh, Thorin nodded, “Yes, Bilbo, you and me.”  Pulling his long hair into an efficient bun, and making Bilbo’s heart stutter for the second time that night, he grinned devilishly, “Ready?”

Unable to find his voice, Bilbo nodded and, almost in a daze, followed Thorin out of the hotel suite.  

It took them awhile, what with Thorin’s terrible sense of direction and the overall confusing layout of the hotel, but eventually they found Elrond’s suite.  Raising a hand to knock, Bilbo let out a muffled shriek when Thorin grabbed his wrist and pulled it close.  “No, Master Burglar,” Thorin whispered, his blue eyes keeping a lookout for any wandering staff.  “Since Elrond has decided to act with dishonesty,” he grinned, all teeth and danger, “then so shall we.”

Using his free hand, Thorin pulled a small white card key from his pocket. Finally releasing Bilbo's hand, Thorin placed a finger against his lips before placing the card into the key swipe. The lock clicked, a green light flashed, and when Thorin pressed down on the handle, it opened.

Brows raising and jaw dripping slightly, Bilbo hissed, “Where did you get that?”

Throwing a conspiratorial grin his way, Thorin whispered back, “Nori.”

_ Of course, _ Bilbo thought. He wondered if the thief had swiped the key card off of Elrond himself. He seriously hoped that wasn't the case. Stealing from a mafioso, Bilbo shuddered at the thought. No way that would end well.

They kept low, sneaking around the corner towards the sound of voices.  Elrond’s suite was surprisingly minimalistic, which made it slightly harder for the two tresspassers to hide themselves.  Thorin was surprisingly crafty, though, and found them a place to hide behind large fiddle leaf fig tree.  Bilbo almost hummed in appreciation over it’s large, perfectly green leaves, but Thorin jerked him in the side with a sharp elbow and pointed through the leaves.

Elrond and Gandalf, still ridiculously clothed in that gray robe, sat at a large glass table along with two other people Bilbo had never seen.  One was a solemn looking man with snow white hair and a well trimmed gray beard, and the other, a woman whose skin shone like starlight and eyes that twinkled with hidden knowledge.

“Tell me, Gandalf,” the gray bearded man said, “did you really think these plans and schemes of your would go unnoticed?”

“Unnoticed?” Gandalf shook his head, almost sadly, “No, Captain,”   _ Captain? _  Bilbo thought with a series of blinks.   _ As in police captain? _  “I’m simply doing what I feel is right.”

“‘ _ The Dragon’ _ has long been on your mind,” the woman said, and her voice made something within Bilbo’s chest ease, made him feel at peace.  Her lips were stretched into an understanding smile, her eyes full of compassion as she waited for Gandalf to explain himself.

“That is true, Madame Mayor,” Bilbo almost gasped.  She was the mayor?  Then what was she doing in a mafioso’s place of business?  Gandalf cleared his throat before continuing, “Unlike other members of the underworld, Smaug owes his allegiance to no one,” he gave Elrond a meaningful look.  “You, my friend, at least keep the peace.  All Smaug cares about is money, and should our enemies bribe his favor--”

“Enemies?”  The police captain interrupted, his expression incredulous.  “What enemies?  For decades now we have lived in peace.  Hard won, watchful peace.”

“Are we?”  Gandalf asked, his tone as sharp as a blade, “Are we at peace?”  He shook his head and sighed, “The Trolls came down from the mountains, set up camp and preyed on innocents just outside of this city’s jurisdiction.  Wargs hunted us not twenty-four hours ago, and you know wherever they are, ORCs aren’t far behind!”

“Hardly a prelude to a gang war,” Elrond said, his voice frustratingly calm.  Bilbo watched with wide eyes as Gandalf’s face twisted into a snarl.  He could tell Gandalf was trying very hard to contain his anger.  

The captain scoffed, his disregard obvious, “As always, Gandalf, you meddle.  Looking for trouble where none exists.  It’s reasons like this you haven’t been made Lieutenant, and--”

“Let him speak,” the mayor cut in, her voice turning hard.  She didn’t take her gaze, so cold and fierce now, off Gandalf, but Bilbo shivered from its intensity all the same.

“I’ve heard things,” Gandalf confided, his voice low and quiet, “A sickness has been spreading, and we can continue to remain blind to it, but it will not be ignoring us.  Radagast,” the captain scoffed again, this time louder and with a bit of spittle.  Gandalf continued on like nothing happened, “he tells me of the Greenwood gang, or, as the people have begun to call it, the ‘Mirkwood’ gang.  Their leader, Thranduil, Radagast tells me--”

“Do not speak to me about Radagast Brown,” the captain growled.  Turning to face the mayor, he said, “He is nothing more than a useless informer who loves his mushroom farm more than any drug dealer has a right to.”  He scoffed for a third time, “A very foolish fellow.”

“Foolish, he may be,” Gandalf persisted, his voice turning thunderous.  Goosebumps rose up along the flesh of Bilbo’s arms.  “But even more foolish are we if we ignore his warnings.  Smaug is dangerous!  He cannot be trusted to keep the peace, and if we do nothing then Erebor’s territory will be crawling with enemies like the Trolls and ORCs and Wargs!  Only the Sons of Durin can--”

“I’m afraid,” Elrond interrupted, looking at Gandalf with apology clear in his eyes.  Again his tone remained calm and even.  It was enough to drive Bilbo mad.  “The Sons of Durin will not be able to do anything about Erebor.  My informants tell me that come the end of Fall, the banks will foreclose on the properties surrounding The Mountain, and after he seizes the deeds he will begin development.”

Beside Bilbo, Thorin tensed up.  Shoulders locking and hands curling into fists, he glared through the leaves of the plant at Elrond.   _ So this is what he knew _ , Bilbo thought.   _ This is what Elrond was hiding. _

“We still have time,” Gandalf said, though his eyes had gone wide.  “We still have a few weeks.”

“I’m sorry, my friend,” the captain sighed, “but I’m afraid you don’t.  You’ve meddled too much, and we cannot allow the Sons of Durin to continue on their quest.  For the good of the peace, you must understand.”

Thorin moved, as if he were about to lunge at them, but Bilbo grabbed his forearm and pulled him back with some sudden, miraculous strength.  The mayor’s head twitched to the side, almost as if she heard something but then decided not to investigate.  Bilbo paid it no matter, however.  His full attention was on Thorin.  

“Come on,” Bilbo hissed in Thorin’s ear, pulling at his forearm.  “ _ Come on _ , you great oaf!” Something snapped into place for the gang leader then, and his blue eyes connected with Bilbo’s hazel.  Instead of annoyance or anger, which was what Bilbo had expected, Thorin’s eyes had taken on a peculiar glint.  It was something Bilbo couldn’t immediately identify, and at the moment he didn’t have time to decipher it.

Thankfully Thorin began to move and the two snuck their way back out of Elrond’s suite and back to their own.  “We’re leaving,”  Thorin said once they entered the room.  “Grab your things, we must be quick.”

A few Sons of Durin, Fili and Kili, mainly, complained about the sudden movement, but every one of them quickly and efficiently grabbed their belongings and followed Thorin’s leave out the door.  

“Thorin-lad,” Balin called once they were in the lobby and just a few feet from the front doors.  “What happened?  What’s the sudden hurry?”

Thorin waited until they were free and clear in the parking lot before answering, “We’ve been betrayed.  Elrond never intended to let us leave.”

Bilbo’s lips pursed.  Betrayed was a bit harsh, but he wasn’t about to rock the boat over something as trivial as semantics.  Several curse words reached his ears, and Dwalin spat on the ground.  

“How are we going to get to Erebor now?”  Bombur asked as he tried to organize a few things in his pack.   

Thorin glowered at the space around them, then pointed, “That’s how.”  He started towards a limo standing at the back of the parking lot.  The driver was standing next to the front, smoking a cigarette with a bored look on his face.  “Balin, you take lead,” Thorin growled.

With a few whoops and hollers, the Sons of Durin, led by Balin, staked towards the car, mischievous glints in all their eyes.  Bilbo winced, the driver wouldn’t stand a chance.  The man would lose his vehicle before he even knew what hit him.

“Mr. Baggins,” Bilbo blinked at the proper pronunciation of his name.  Thorin was looking at him, that strange look back in his eyes.  “I suggest you keep up.”

Swallowing thickly, Bilbo nodded and hurried to follow Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyy so this fic is alive and kicking! Whoo!

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to continue the GOME story (at least for now). I have a rough idea of where I want this to go and hopefully I can execute it properly. It'll start out following canon, but it might (read: probably) diverge away from the beaten path.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Comments/kudos/whatever are always (always) appreciated.


End file.
